


Light my Candle

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Rent AU, and all that, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RENT AU. Enjolras is perfectly ready for a quiet night of rest, until a dark-haired slip of a drug addict arrives unannounced from the upstairs apartment, looking for a light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. light my candle

**Author's Note:**

> This is a RENT AU, because that discussion was bumping around tumblr today and while I'm really really not qualified to have written this, since I haven't seen RENT in a really long time... it got into my head and I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> uugh RENT. Just popping up to remind me of feelings I had forgotten I had and then punching me in the face with them.

He's just trying to get some rest when it happens. 

It's been too exhausting, really, all of it. There's still so much to fight for, so much more fighting to do before they're done, and he's so tired, and, on top of all that he's working on, and he really is working on too much, he might get evicted. There's no time to try and look for another place, and he can't afford another place because he will not ask his parents for help, no way, and Combeferre will do his best but between the two of them it's still never enough and-- 

It's too, too much to even think about and all he wants is to collapse back onto the couch and close his eyes and _breathe_.

He's sitting there, just breathing, when the power goes out. He continues to sit, too tired to bother to move. There are candles sitting all around the apartment, because the power goes out all the time, but he can't muster the energy to sit up and light any of them. So he sits in the dark. 

And then the scratching at the window starts. This he can ignore for a little while, but then the scratching turns into knocking, and it's so annoying that he heaves himself up to see what's happening, hoping it's not another freaky city rat trying to get in like last week. 

_No,_ he thinks when he sees what's actually at the window; _No, not exactly a rat._

It's a boy. Really, a man, but he's so slight and boyish it feels wrong to call him a man. He's a waifish ghost of a boy with a dark mop of hair and dark shadows under his eyes... and he's staring straight at Enjolras with an almost frightening level of intensity. 

But then the intensity breaks and the boy gives a little wave and knocks at the glass again. 

This is probably their mysterious upstairs neighbor, Enjolras realizes as he heads towards the window. They stare at each other for a moment through the glass before he pries the window up. A gush of fresh air streams in, along with this wisp of a boy who pours himself in through the window without an invitation. His long legs clamber through, encased in jeans that are far too tight and look to be, from the light coming from the street lamps outside, neon blue. 

"Hi," says a graveled, smokey voice. "Sorry to bust in, it's just, you know, it's so dark and well--" The body attached to the voice turns, and for the first time Enjolras actually gets a good look at the stranger standing in the middle of his apartment. What he had initially seen as waifish he now realizes is dangerously thin. He's all bones; bones peek from under the torn, low collar of his t-shirt, from under the sleeves; bones jut out at his wrists and hips and everywhere that isn't covered in clothes. His hair is ratty, not just messy, and the dark circles under his eyes are from more than lack of sleep... but his eyes are bright and his teeth are straight and white. 

Enjolras stares, still standing by the window. The boy gives a little shiver, which he then shrugs off. 

"Do you have a light?"

"Are you cold?" 

"No heat," he says by way of explanation while chewing at his bottom lip, though Enjolras doesn't completely buy it. "You got matches or something? It's dark as hell and I've got this candle, but..." The boy is sauntering over to him, and finally Enjolras notices the big column candle he's gesturing with, holding in his long, thin fingers. "I used up the last of my matches yesterday." 

It's intoxicating to watch the swing of his hips as he walks; this is a boy who knows how to use his hips. There's a glitter in his eyes, too, which is entrancing, and almost definitely purposefully so. Enjolras gets the feeling he's watching a performance, but it's so effective that he doesn't mind. There was something raw in his look, during that first moment at the window, which has gone now, buried beneath this swagger and forced confidence. 

The boy slinks over to him, and before he knows it they're standing toe to toe, and the boy is smiling a lopsided smile at him and looking up through thick eyelashes. 

"What are you staring at?" 

"Nothing," Enjolras stutters, and reaches into his pocket and produces his lighter, holding it up between them. 

"Oh, thanks," the boy says, snatching it from his hands and disappearing off into the darkness of the apartment. 

"You look familiar."

"I live upstairs." He gives a little smile, and something shoots through Enjolras' heart. 

One by one, little flickers of flame start to appear as the boy lights all the candles littered around the apartment first, before lighting his own. The boy is laughing, playful little giggles that flutter around the room; "Stop staring at me." 

"Sorry, it's just that you... you remind me of someone." 

Finally, the boy has lit all the candles and the apartment shimmers warmly. 

"Someone pretty, I hope." 

In the light, the boy looks almost beautiful. The glint of his hair in the candlelight, the way it reflects off his cheekbones and collarbones and biceps. But the light also illuminates his skin, and Enjolras notices the dark bruises that line in insides of his arms. There is a moment when the boy notices that Enjolras has noticed his track marks and then somehow they ended up toe to toe again, the boy invading his personal space, and Enjolras finds himself distracted by the deep blue of his eyes. 

"Well. Thanks." And with that he's sauntering back towards the window, brushing past Enjolras with his lit candle in hand. He's half out the window when he stops abruptly and looks back. 

"Did it go out?"

"No, it's... uhm, I dropped my stash." The candle abandoned on the window sill, the boy is back inside and pacing feverishly around the room, his eyes frantically searching. All the coolness and finesse of a moment ago has been abandoned. "It was good stuff too." 

"I swear I've seen you before."

The boy drops to his knees by the couch, and crawls about, searching blindly in the dark.

"Uhm, have you been to the Cat Scratch Club? I work there. I bartend. And uhm, dance a little." He sounds shy about it, but as he glances over his shoulder, Enjolras catches a bright glitter in his eyes, a flash of pride and excitement. Maybe he's noticed how Enjolras can't stop staring at his ass-- which seems to be the only part of him that isn't completely boney. And it's definitely a nice ass. 

"Hey," Enjolras says, catching the boy by the arm and helping him stand. "Why don't you forget that stuff? You look like a teenager."

"Well, I'm not," he tries unsuccessfully to pull his arm free, but his casual, breezy smile remains. "I'm old on the inside. Besides," he adds with a little swish of his hips, "I was born to be bad."

Enjolras' blunt side makes a sudden appearance, and he gives the boy's arm a twist, forcing his bruises and scars into the sharp light of the candles : "You're a junkie." 

The boy looks momentarily shocked, and then shakes it off with another one of those laughs. "Call it what you like, I guess. But I like to feel good." He wrenches his arm free and turns, looking for his little packet of drugs with renewed vigor. Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes, and _of course_ his gaze happens to fall precisely upon what the boy is so desperately searching for, lying by the door to the bathroom. He makes a casual circle of the apartment, as if he's helping to look, and when the boy is turned the other way with his hands buried in his mess of hair, Enjolras ducks to pick up the little packet and shove it in his back pocket. He bounces back up to find the boy staring at him from across the room with that freaky intensity again, but the moment passes and the facade is up again.

With a frustrated huff, the boy throws his hands up melodramatically and plops onto the couch. "It's too dark!"

"We could light more candles..." Enjolras says, awkwardly going over to join him on the couch. He perches on the arm, but when the boy shivers again, Enjolras drops onto the couch properly, as if his body heat could possibly do something to help. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine." The boy leans in terribly close, and Enjolras swallows hard. He shouldn't find this boy so attractive-- he shouldn't find him attractive at all, because objectively he's a train wreck, and he's sickly thin (and probably actually sick), and on top of that, he's got the look of a lost cause in his eyes. Like someone who's already given up and is halfway to courting death. "You're very handsome."

"Thanks?"

"Is that your guitar?" 

Enjolras nods, unable to look away from the boys chapped lips but trying very desperately to do just that. "I don't really play much any more."

"I hear you're an activist."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Just around." There's a hand on his knee, and it's creeping slowly but confidently up his thigh. "I know people."

"Oh." 

"Trying to save the world, help the poor, clean up the diseased masses. Enact change. That's good. Noble. Brave." The hand is nearly at Enjolras' crotch when he finally musters the will to pull himself away, leaping back and up onto his knees on the couch. 

"You're teasing," he says through a clenched jaw, and all the boy does is smile at him-- a genuine smile this time, though, Enjolras thinks. An warm, honest smile. Maybe he isn't teasing. 

"Wanna dance?" he asks, and that voice does something extraordinary to Enjolras' lower spine. That voice, husky from too much smoking, but smooth enough to be melodic. The boy has gotten himself half onto Enjolras' lap again, knees on the outsides of Enjolras' knees, his face much too close for comfort...

"With you?" 

And his hands... his hands are wandering again, up Enjolras' arms and down his back, tracing down the line of his spine... 

Another playful laugh, and this time Enjolras can feel the heat of his breath against his cheek. Hands dip into his back pockets, and Enjolras doesn't even have time to recognize that he's been played before the boy is giving his ass a quick squeeze and he's retreating with his stash in hand. 

"Thanks, pretty boy." 

"I'm Enjolras." 

The boy is at the window again, ready to leap out like Peter Pan disappearing into the night, but he stops. The candle on the sill, which has been waiting for him, has gone out, but he picks it up anyway. 

"They call me R." He says with a smirk that dissolves into another genuine smile quick enough."Grantaire." 

And then he's gone, out the window and up the fire escape, and the last Enjolras sees of him is a flash of those bright blue, far too tight jeans. 

Enjolras huffs and collapses back onto the couch. 

"Grantaire," he says, tasting the name. It's good. It feels right. 

And then he realizes that _Grantaire_ stole his lighter. It's collateral, he decides. They'll see each other again. 


	2. today for you

With the power off, it's gotten cold enough that by the time Combeferre comes home, Enjolras has scrounged out a blanket and is lying curled up on the couch, wrapped up like a child. The candles are still burning, but they're starting to burn low and they never provided any heat to begin with. 

"Hey," Combeferre says as he steps through the door. He makes a move to unwind his scarf from his neck and then thinks better of it and keeps it on. "Chilly in here." 

"Yeah," Enjolras says. He's been staring at the window, still open, since Grantaire slipped out of it over an hour ago, as if willing him to slip back through it, even though he knows better. "I met our upstairs neighbor." 

"Oh yeah?"

"Drug addict," he says. Combeferre goes over to the window with a sad shrug of his shoulders, and just as he slams the window shut, the power comes back on.

"Thank heavens." With a sigh, Combeferre pushes his glasses back up his nose. Enjolras rolls off the couch and together they work at putting out all the candles. When the last one is out, Combeferre asks, "How are you feeling?"

Enjolras throws him a sharp look; "Fine," he snaps, but softens immediately and adds, "tired." 

"Tell me more about Upstairs." 

"He climbed in through the window, sashayed around the place, and stole my lighter. And he has a lot of track marks." Combeferre gives another sad shrug. "I mean a lot." He gestures up and down his arms to demonstrate. "And he's..." Enjolras fishes for the right word, uncomfortable with what he arrives at, "sensual. Slinky. Works at the Cat Scratch apparently."

This perks Combeferre up; "Does he dance?"

"A little, he says." 

"Oh, sexy."

"Don't start," Enjolras says, collapsing back on the couch after giving Combeferre a little punch to the shoulder. "He reminds me of..." The tone of his voice, fallen sad and quiet after being strong and slightly playful just a moment ago, turns Combeferre's head. They both know who he means. "You know." He gives a dismissive shrug and goes back to staring at the window. 

Combeferre knows, of course he knows. No further explanation or discussion required. 

Enjolras buries himself in his blanket and eventually falls asleep there.

The next day-- he would say morning, but the clock rolled past 12 about three hours ago-- Enjolras is sitting on the couch, blanket still around his shoulders, working his way through a pile of paperwork. Embarrassing as it is to say, he's having a hard time concentrating. He can't stop thinking about Grantaire, about his wrists and track marks. 

Combeferre is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. They'd been chatting idly for a while, but it's fallen quiet now, and that's how Enjolras hears the window crack open. When he looks up, Grantaire is already half inside, slung onto the window sill. The way his shirt rides up-- a tight black number today-- exposes the hard lines of his hipbones, and Enjolras feels his jaw tightening. 

Combeferre nearly drops his coffee. 

"No knocking?" Enjolras says, trying to be casual, and actually a little frustrated that this total stranger has decided it's okay to burst in whenever he likes, no matter how cute the stranger happens to be.

Grantaire shrugs. He's in a different pair of too tight jeans-- these are a faded cheetah print instead of the hot blue of last night. "No point." 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, trying hard to discourage himself from smiling. Grantaire stares at him and for a moment he stares right back.

"You should wear a coat," Combeferre says, interrupting. "It's December, you'll freeze to death."

Grantaire shrugs again, an idle, easy gesture. "Might as well," He says with a friendly smile, and climbs all the way into the apartment, closing the window behind him. Sauntering over to Combeferre, all sex appeal, he says, "I'm R, by the way." They shake hands and Enjolras puts his paperwork down, realizing that he's done with work until Grantaire leaves. 

"Grantaire," he says; "His name is Grantaire."

Combeferre laughs and their guest pouts. 

"This is the dancer from the Cat Scratch Club?" 

Grantaire's pout transforms beautifully into an artful little smirk of pride, and he sweeps into a curtsey. "One and the same." He turns to Enjolras; "You've been talking about me." 

How he moves so fast, Enjolras may never know, but he's settled on the couch beside him in a heartbeat, his skinny body somehow taking up half the cushions. "I took your lighter," Grantaire whispers. 

"I noticed," Enjolras responds, at full volume. 

"Sorry." The lighter falls into his lap, and Enjolras fumbles to collect it and slide it into his pocket. "I thought we could do brunch, just you and me." 

The glitter in his eyes is very tempting, and very dangerous. 

"But that was before I'd met your handsome roommate."

Combeferre flusters and laughs and shrugs. "No, no, I'm busy. You two should go." 

"No, Combeferre, I--" Enjolras begins, but is interrupted by the door of the apartment slamming open. 

It's Feuilly, cigarette in mouth and a bucket in hand, full of goodies. He looks like a hero astride the earth, making a triumphant return.

"Heya, fellas. Did you miss me? I brought treats." The force of his personality and enthusiasm fills the room immediately, pushing away all discussion of brunch or anything else. Enjolras barely has time to notice that Grantaire has disappeared back towards the window, depositing himself on the window sill with one knee pulled up against his chest, because Feuilly is man-handling him into a tight hug and handing out tiny bottles of vodka and packs of cigarettes and hot pierogies wrapped in paper.

"Where did you get these?" 

"Doesn't matter."

"A meal for a prince! What a find!" 

"Wait 'til you see what else I found," Feuilly says with a grin. "Who's that?" 

Finally, little Grantaire has been spotted. He gives a charming wave. 

"That's Grantaire. He lives upstairs." 

"He's a dancer," Combeferre whispers loudly to Feuilly, who waggles his eyebrows. 

"Well then you'll love my next surprise," Feuilly says, rushing over to the window to take Grantaire by the hands and pull him into the center of the room. Grantaire doesn't protest, probably because Feuilly undoubtedly has about fifty pounds on him, and all of it is muscle. "Jehan!" 

And in through the still open door sweeps this tiny, beautiful blonde covered in flowers. Or at least, he might as well be covered in flowers, since he's head to toe in floral patterns: dark blues and pinks in his tight jeans, which are cuffed to his ankles despite of the cold weather; pale yellows and greens in his sweater; a white bloom tucked behind his ear. His hair is short and wavy and it's not hard to imagine him with a braid or two, or wearing a bohemian skirt. He is a nymph for the twentieth century. 

For a moment the room is shocked into silence and awe at the sight of this romantic vision come to life.

"Jean Prouvaire, how do you do?" He offers one delicate, ringed hand, and Grantaire rushes in to take it with a sweeping bow, placing a kiss to soft knuckles. "They call me Jehan."

"Jehan, hello." Enjolras says, but Grantaire is too busy being charming to let him into the conversation. He gives Jehan a twirl, obviously enchanted. 

"You're an angel."

Jehan keens under the compliment, blushing and fluttering his eyelashes. "They call me that too."

"He's a musician," Feuilly says with a grin, giving Jehan another graceful spin. "A musician who rescued me off the street from muggers. A brave little musician." 

"And a dancer, and a poet, and an all around _artist_ and lover of love," Jehan adds for himself, tumbling back towards Grantaire. They pair of them sway together gracefully, falling into an improvised dance. Enjolras can't look away, and for the moment he happily watches this dark slip of a man and this light flower of a boy dance together in his loft, both smiling and very alive. 

"I love your hair," Grantaire says playfully, brushing at a loose curl. 

"Do you?" One slight hand flutters to his cropped locks. "I just got it cut. Thought it wise." 

Their hips slide in perfect unison, their feet follow each other in complicated little steps. Jehan giggles and Grantaire smiles, his eyes sliding to meet Enjolras'. 

"I brought more surprises too," Feuilly says, breaking the moment. He smiles mischievously and suddenly in pour all the friends they haven't seen in so long, Courfeyrac and Bahorel and Joly and Bossuet pushing through the doorway in a clump. 

All their friends, smiling and laughing and grinning. Courfeyrac who went to LA six months ago to try his luck; Bahorel who went along for a laugh. Joly and Bossuet who are the only ones _not_ starving and living outside their means, and so are just really busy being doctors and lawyers. 

Enjolras could have been a lawyer by now if only... 

But he doesn't think about that. 

They tumble in and all of them hug, one big tangle of limbs and smiles and hollered hellos. Enjolras allows himself to get caught up in it, feeling warmly, deeply happy for the first time in maybe months. 

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair as Joly and Bossuet deposit kisses on his cheeks. Bahorel has Combeferre in a tight hug, and if they were all still teenagers, Enjolras thinks he would be grinding his knuckles into Combeferre's skull. 

When they all emerge from their dog pile of embraces, Grantaire has disappeared back out the window. 

"Where did he go?" Jehan says quietly to Enjolras, as things start to actually settle down. He had been watching the extravagant expression of affection from the sidelines, giggling and grinning and applauding gently.

"I don't know." 

"Is he your boyfriend?" 

Enjolras barks out a cold laugh that quiets the room. "No." 

Feuilly sweeps Jehan away to meet everyone else, effectively breaking the tension by diverting energy away from Enjolras and onto the lovely flower boy. Combeferre places a gentle hand on Enjolras' shoulder before being pulled away by Courfeyrac, who's asking, "How's Eponine?" 

Enjolras wanders over to the window, disappointed that Grantaire is gone even though that's what he thought he wanted. Get rid of him, send him away, not have to be tempted by the way he dances or the _way he is_ , and therefore not have to stop himself from touching him, from kissing him, from getting to know him. Not have to get hurt, or hurt him, or have to explain-- 

"We broke up," Combeferre says from behind him. "Well, she broke up with me." 

"Aw, sorry, bro. Another man?" 

"Uh, not really--"

The windows are half-frosted over and Enjolras finds himself considering if Grantaire even owns a winter jacket. It's far, far too cold to be climbing fire escapes in t-shirts. 

"That beautiful dealer on Avenue B?"

"No, definitely not." 

He should probably go rescue Combeferre from the world's most awkward interrogation, but he notices a little disruption in the frost down at the edge of the window. 

It's a message, written by a hot fingertip in cold ice. 

_Sorry, pretty boy,_ it says. The handwriting consists of very precise straight lines, and Enjolras finds himself impressed by how much thought it must have taken to write it on the outside of the window so the message would be legible from the inside. _Your friends are a bit too boisterous for me this morning._

"Has someone new moved into the neighborhood while I've been away? Don't tell me there's some other guy I have to contend with!" Courfeyrac laughs. 

On the next pane: _U and me. Brunch/lunch/dinner/drinks/whatever?_

"Not a guy, Courf. A girl." Combeferre stutters and Bahorel laughs a touch too loud for politeness. "A woman." 

_you know where to find me._

"Aw, Combeferre. That's rough, buddy."

"I mean, it's okay. I'm over it." 

More laughter. Enjolras puts his hand on the window and melts away the frost and the message. 

All except the last line, which climbs up the side of the window pane, as if Grantaire had run out of space while writing. 

Writing in frost, watching through the window, as Enjolras was reunited with all his oldest, dearest friends. 

_or watch out because I'll find you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how the plot is going to go with this because it obviously isn't going to follow Les Mis but it also isn't completely following RENT?! Stick with me and we can figure it out together.


	3. another day

Everyone else has gone out to drink and celebrate their friendship, but Enjolras bowed out gracefully, claiming to be tired and busy. 

So instead he stays home, on the couch as usual, with his guitar on his lap. But he's not playing it, though he tried for a moment right after everyone had left. Jehan had given him a sweet kiss on the cheek before going, then taken Feuilly's offered arm as the pair of them had been the last to leave. Enjolras had waved them all off and found himself suddenly very alone. 

His guitar had been leaning against the wall in a corner, and he was in such a decent mood that he thought maybe playing would be nice. But the moment he had it in his hands, he had realized what a mistake it had been. So he sat on the couch, flipped it face down, and used it as a desk instead. 

He's been drafting a speech for over an hour and is still only four lines in. 

Dropping his head back onto the arm of the couch, he gives a miserable sigh and puts his paper and pen onto the coffee table. 

The guitar is heavy on his lap, and he thrums at it for a moment, tapping at the wood idly. It's probably out of tune by now. 

With a quick spin, Enjolras is faced with the strings and frets. His fingers pluck a little, strumming out a few notes that ring discordantly through the empty loft. 

He used to be good at this. 

There's a knock at the window, and Enjolras snaps to attention. It's Grantaire, of course, looking up demurely through his eyelashes. Enjolras glares at him, and does not invite him in, but the window opens anyway and Grantaire swings himself in anyway. 

Something about him looks different. His tight pants might be leather, his shirt might be mesh, but at least it has sleeves. He's wearing a scarf against the cold. 

"Hello, pretty boy," He purrs, slinking over towards the couch, snow in his hair and on his shoulders. He climbs along the back of the couch like a cat, twisting his hips as he crawls forward. "I just got off work and I'm all jazzed up." Stretching out, he balances his entire long body along the back of the couch, positioning himself parallel to Enjolras, who finds himself incapable of words. The curve of his body, from shoulder to ribs to sunken stomach to hips, is the sweep of a paintbrush, and Enjolras cannot help but stare.

Grantaire reaches out and scratches Enjolras on the nose; "Meow."

He laughs and tosses his head, shaking his hair momentarily out of his eyes. 

"Take me out, pretty boy." He slides down onto the couch proper, coming to straddle Enjolras' knees. "I wanna be wild, wanna go dancing, wanna be with you." He smiles and this makes Enjolras smile, just a little. "Take me, pretty boy. Take me out, what d'ya say?" 

With tricky fingers, he removes Enjolras' guitar from between them, placing it on the floor with only the smallest of thunks. Enjolras puts his hands on Grantaire's shoulders with every intention of pushing him away, but Grantaire's cheeks are flushed and his mouth is _right there_ and when Grantaire goes in for the kiss he meets no resistance. 

His lips are chapped but his mouth is hot and wet, and Enjolras pulls him close, his arms encompassing Grantaire's thin back. It's quickly becoming clear that Grantaire knows how to use more than just his hips, as his tongue slides and teases, as his teeth drag and nip.

Grantaire is above him, grinding their hips together and breathing through his mouth obscenely. He presses kisses to Enjolras' neck and jawline and then returns to his mouth, plunging forward with abandon. Enjolras reciprocates, feeling the sharp edges of Grantaire's shoulder blades under his fingers, and his writhing muscles. Enjolras hasn't kissed anyone in over a year, and it feels terribly nice. Grantaire's hands start to slide south, and once his talented fingers have undone his jeans and are trying to slip inside, it hits him-- something crashes into his psyche and it's like running full speed into a brick wall-- 

it's the same feeling he had when he got his test results-- 

the same feeling as when he got the call from the cops-- 

It hits him _why_ he hasn't kissed anyone in over a year. Why he doesn't go out anymore. Why he didn't want to let Grantaire get near in the first place. 

And he shoves Grantaire off of him, tossing him to the foot of the sofa. He sprawls there, looking totally debauched, with his hair a mess, his lips red, and his legs spread seductively in those fucking tight jeans. 

"Who do you think you are?" Enjolras leaps off the couch, barely missing stepping on his guitar, and crosses the room. He feels furious, feverish. "You can't just barge in here whenever you want!" He throws his hands up and runs his fingers through his hair. "Get out of here!" 

In a moment he's crossed the room again and has pulled Grantaire forcibly to his feet. Grantaire's only reaction, to his credit, is a look on incredulity and a little cry of pain at Enjolras' hard grip.

"Get out of here, back out the window like Peter Pan, running away, always running away into the night. Or, you know what?" He drags Grantaire the opposite way, jerking him around the apartment. "You're actually a grown-ass man, go out the fucking door. I can't handle you. I can't do this."

"Christ," Grantaire says as Enjolras lets go of him and he stumbles a few steps towards the door. "And here I thought we had something going." 

Enjolras says nothing, just struts over to the door and rips it open. He has a moment of hesitation and lingers in the doorway. He doesn't mean to be cruel, doesn't want to hurt Grantaire, genuinely he doesn't... And maybe, he thinks, maybe he should just be up front about it all and let Grantaire run away all on his own. Maybe he doesn't need to be pushed away. But he doesn't. He's never said the words and he doesn't want to start now. Even when Combeferre found out, it was because Enjolras had left the papers on the counter in the kitchen with a post-it note stuck to them: _FYI._

_P.S. at hospital. A is dead._

He can't. 

A hand touches his shoulder, and he wheels on Grantaire, suddenly more angry than before. 

"Stop!" He shouts. "There's nothing going on! Not in this life, not now. Maybe another time, another day, but not now. There is _nothing_ between us, there can't be. I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not romantic and you won't get any romance from me, if that's what you want." 

Grantaire looks hurt and a little scared. But he doesn't retreat. After thinking for a moment, he takes a single step forwards. 

"You can either be an ice princess," he says, more gentle than not, "or you can live your life. You can hide in here or you can come out with me." His blue eyes stare hard as his hand reaches out to brush against Enjolras'. "Your life is passing you by. You're letting it get away from you." 

Enjolras scoffs. 

"Stop being scared. Who cares about the past? Or the future? You gotta live like every day is your last." 

This makes Enjolras turn even colder. "That's cute," he sneers.

"That's what I do." Grantaire seems immune to Enjolras' forced disdain. "Who cares about any of it? It's just us. Just this." He takes Enjolras' hand in his own, and holds firm, refusing to let Enjolras pull away. "Don't worry so much." His other hand traces the lines of Enjolras' neck, sliding up towards his hair. "Just enjoy this moment. You'll be much happier. No day but today, right?" He laughs and leans in for a kiss, which is what sends Enjolras away. 

"Wow, excuse me. I didn't realize you were a philosopher. If you're so smart, _R_ , why do you need smack, huh? Why do that to yourself?" 

He doesn't give Grantaire time to respond before he continues, pushing into Grantaire's personal space until the man is forced to step backwards. He drives him all the way back to the door like this. 

"Get out of here," he hisses, feeling his lips curl. "Take your track marks and your reckless philosophy and get out of my life. Leave me alone." 

Grantaire stands on the landing quietly while Enjolras fumes. 

"Another time, you said. What does that mean?" 

"I can't be with you. I've got no fire left. Get out." 

"Who did I remind you of, when we first met?" 

"That's none of your business."

"Some ex? Is that it?" 

This is too much. Enjolras explodes.

"Yep!" He says, his voice half way to a hysterical shriek and trembling. His hands are shaking. "My fucking dead ex-boyfriend! Good job, you guessed it! You look like my boyfriend who fucking _died_ so sorry I can't fuck you." 

Grantaire is quiet. He looks apologetic and hurt all at once, but says nothing, not right away. 

"You're sick. You're fucked up." He turns on his heel and runs down the stairs. Enjolras stands alone in the doorway to his empty apartment, his shoulders heaving. 

He feels like shit. 

And then he turns back into the apartment and goes over to the window, wrenching it open and crawling out onto the fire escape. Grantaire is out in the street, still visible as he flees the scene. He looks so small, and so cold, his arms wrapped around himself. He's shaking his head to himself. 

"Peter Pan!" Enjolras shouts, feeling nastiness rise up in him. "Grow up! Face facts." 

"Leave me alone, Wendy-bird," Grantaire shouts back to him. "You're a dick. It's not my fault you can't move on with your life. How are you supposed to be an activist when you're a fucking coward?" 

"Fuck you!" 

"You can't control everything! Sometimes you've got to just live!" 

"Then let me fucking live without you in my life!" 

"You're not living! You're hiding!" 

They scream back and forth like this, even after Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly and Jehan have rounded the corner and met Grantaire on the curb. 

What Enjolras can't see, from his third story fire escape, is that Grantaire is crying. His voice is steady and convictions sure, but there are tears running down his cheeks. Jehan wraps his arms around Grantaire's thin, cold shoulders even as the fight continues. He presses his face into Grantaire's hair and holds him. 

Finally they run out of things to say to each other and Grantaire slumps into Jehan's arms, too emotionally exhausted to maintain his strong facade any longer. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are having some kind of conference in the background, speaking intensely to each other and glancing occasionally up at Enjolras. 

As a group, the five of them head back towards the building, Jehan supporting Grantaire, and Enjolras watches them disappear before going back inside.

He's cooled down a little, but he's still seething. 

And... sad. He feels sad. 

He likes Grantaire even though he doesn't know him, and he honestly doesn't want to hurt him. But sometimes hurting people is the only way to keep them safe. 

The door to the apartment groans open and in come Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac, all looking sheepish. 

"Jehan is upstairs with Grantaire," Feuilly explains. 

"That was... intense." Courfeyrac says, going to the kitchen to pour them all drinks. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Combeferre offers. Enjolras rebuffs him immediately, shrugging off his pity.

"No."

"Look..." Courfeyrac brings him a mug from the kitchen, and from the smell of it, it's 90 percent vodka. "This could be good for you. _He_ could be good for you. Why don't you give it a shot? What's the harm?"

Enjolras snorts. 

"You'll regret it."

"I don't think so." 

They sit around in awkward half silence. Courfeyrac keeps trying to make conversation which never picks up. Feuilly glances towards the door every five minutes or so, waiting for Jehan to reappear. Eventually Bahorel returns, sporting a black eye. He reports that Joly and Bossuet headed back uptown to the apartment that they share, saying they weren't feeling up to an unheated sleepover. This, at least, makes everyone laugh, even if it's half-hearted.

No one needs to explain to Bahorel what happened; he picks up on the mood quick enough and slings an arm around Enjolras' shoulder. They sit on the couch together, Enjolras comforted by the weight of Bahorel next to him-- not that he would say so. 

It's been about 45 minutes when Jehan slides back through the doorway. He looks tired, but his soft, airy smile still graces his features. 

Enjolras has the good graces to look a little embarrassed. Bahorel gives his shoulder a little shake and squeeze, and removes his arm. 

Jehan collapses onto the floor, into Feuilly's lap. 

"Poor thing," he sighs as Feuilly plucks the wilting flower from behind his ear. "Poor dear." 

Enjolras feels a little sick. He clenches his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops I'm really into this Peter Pan motif.


	4. and it's beginning to snow

"You should go apologize," Jehan had said. "I don't know you very well, I know, but you seem like a good person, Enjolras, and you were not good to him."

Enjolras had shrugged and avoided Jehan's eyes, more worried than accusing, soft and sweet and kinder than he deserves.

"I just don't think you should be unhappy without cause. And I must say, it seems like you're actively pushing happiness away." 

"Let it go, Jehan," Feuilly whispered into his ear, trying to diffuse the situation. 

"I don't think it's unreasonable. It's silly to wallow like this."

"You don't know anything about it," Enjolras had snapped, and Jehan had backed off with a submissive wave of his hand. But he was right, Enjolras had been unnecessarily cruel, and he _should_ apologize, and he was wallowing. He'd been wallowing for a year. 

It took him most of the night to overcome his pride and decide to go upstairs. By that time everyone else had gone to bed. Combeferre had retreated to his bedroom first, leaving with one last lingering glance at Enjolras, who had settled at the window long ago. Bahorel was spread across an armchair, his feet up on the coffee table and chin slumped onto his chest. Courfeyrac had built a nest out of blankets on the floor.

"Tomorrow we're going out at noon, and we're all getting drunk, and we're not coming back until Enjolras smiles," Bahorel had mumbled before falling asleep, and everyone had murmured their assent. 

Enjolras had alternated watching Feuilly and Jehan tangled up on on the couch, arms wrapped around each other and foreheads pressed together, and staring out the window. Half of him expected Grantaire to come slinking down the fire escape at any moment, but he never did. 

He'd been awful to Grantaire, and why? Because he was sick and afraid and refused to admit it? Because he thought he knew nothing good could come from getting involved with the addict upstairs? Because the past year had felt like a dream, and he still sometimes woke up reaching across the bed, searching for the warmth of a body that had long since been gone? 

Because, despite having Combeferre always close, he still felt alone and he invited that loneliness so that he wouldn't get hurt again, or hurt anyone else. The fewer people he knew when his body finally kicked out on him, the better, and if that meant a few years of isolation? So be it. He'd been alone before, and could be alone now. He could handle it. Or at least that's what he'd been telling himself.

Enjolras had cracked open the window and slipped outside. 

Turning to close the window behind him, he spotted Jehan's blonde head peeking up over the edge of the couch. They shared a little smile, and Jehan gave a bright thumbs up before dropping back out of sight.

Now he stands on the fire escape, halfway up the stairs and he doesn't know how he's going to begin. He wavers, taking a step back down for every step up. 

How much should he explain, if any of it? 

_Sorry I was a dick, I'm just really afraid of dying for nothing and leaving nothing of worth behind, and that's where I'm heading because of this horrible virus?_

Enjolras shakes his head. He can't say that. He can't say any of it. But he has to say something, because he's standing outside the window to Grantaire's apartment now, and it's too cold to stay outside for too long. 

The window is unlocked, and Enjolras isn't surprised. In fact, it makes him smile. He opens it up and has one foot in the door before he thinks to knock. The rap of his knuckles rings hollowly through the little apartment. 

"Grantaire?" 

There's no answer, so Enjolras lets himself in, climbing through the window without any of the grace Grantaire has when he does it. 

"I wanted to talk."

The apartment is smaller than the loft Enjolras and Combeferre share downstairs. The walls are dingier and the lighting is poor, and the place is a mess. Enjolras picks his way through piles of clothes and abandoned art projects, through a kitchen with no food in it. In the back corner of the apartment, half hidden behind some tied back curtains, is a bed with a conspicuously Grantaire shaped lump curled up in it. 

"Grantaire?" Enjolras hovers at the edge of the bed. The sheets are covered in charcoal and burn marks and there's little Grantaire, burying his face in those dirty sheets.

"If you're here to yell at me some more, please don't."

"I'm not--"

"Because I'm really not in the mood, okay? I get it, you're a cold bitch and you don't want anything to do with me. That's fine. Stop rubbing it in and leave," he hisses meanly from his place beneath the covers.

"It's not..." Enjolras takes a deep breath and sits as he searches for the right words. "It's not that I don't want anything to do with you, it's that... I can't. I shouldn't. You wouldn't want to."

Grantaire looks up, his face smudged with tears. "That doesn't even make sense. Please go." 

"I came up here to apologize. For how I treated you." 

"Forget it," Grantaire grumbles and collapses back into the sheets. He's still angry, that much is obvious, and Enjolras deserves all that anger. Grantaire gives him a blind little push of encouragement. He sneers, "you can leave now, you've apologized. Your guilt can be assuaged."

"No, I don't want to leave, I want to apologize," Enjolras snaps, frustration rising fast in his throat. He tries to do one nice thing and this is what it gets him? Sarcasm. "Listen. I was out of line and I'm sorry. I really am sorry. I got mad, and I pushed you away."

"Jehan put you up to this." 

Enjolras shakes his head, despite the truth of that statement. Even without Jehan, Enjolras likes to think he would have come up here anyway. "I mean it, Grantaire. I'm sorry. Can I make it up to you?" 

"How?" 

"Sit up and talk to me like an adult, please." 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but he does, emerging from his cocoon of blankets like a crumpled butterfly. He's shirtless and, Enjolras can't help but notice, covered in bruises and scrapes. Grantaire catches Enjolras looking, but doesn't make a move to cover himself.

"They're mostly from dancing," he says. "Honestly. It can be rough, but you know, it's a job..." 

Enjolras frowns. 

"Well, look, a bunch of us are doing lunch... or brunch or something, tomorrow. Why don't you join us?" 

Grantaire just stares, his eyes dark in the dim light. 

"I mean," Enjolras says, back-pedaling. He should have planned this out better. "Would you like to come with me?" 

"With you?" He falls forward onto his elbows, hands clasped in front of him and body folded in half. His fingertips nearly brush Enjolras' thigh. "Yeah, I guess I'd like that." 

"Okay then." 

The silence is amiable between them for a few moments. Grantaire picks at his blankets and Enjolras watches him, his mind a confused jumble. This feels good, in a way, sitting with Grantaire with a half date on the books, but it also feels unhealthy and deceitful, somehow. He feels guilty. 

"Listen," Grantaire says. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I said you were fucked up. I'm definitely more fucked up than you, so it was a stupid thing to say."

"You don't have to apologize."

"Too late," Grantaire says, shyly not meeting Enjolras' eyes. "I already did. I'm really, _really_ fucked up, Enjolras. Like, unstable and sick and an _addict_ ," he gives a bitter little laugh. "I shouldn't have ever even spoken to you. I mean, look at you." He gestures to Enjolras, to his blonde hair and strong jawline and healthy musculature. He gestures to himself, "And then look at me. You're a god and I'm... a mess." 

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. 

Enjolras catches his hands and holds them, looking Grantaire hard in the eyes. 

"I am genuinely sorry for how I treated you," he says slowly. "It won't happen again. I promise." 

Grantaire almost smiles, then. He turns his hands to intertwine their fingers, gives a brief squeeze, and then untangles them so he can trace the lines of Enjolras' palms. 

"Can I ask what happened to him? Your boyfriend who looked like me." 

"He didn't really look like you. Not really. He just... there's something about you that reminds me of him. That's all." Grantaire's mouth curves softly at the corners. "Your smile, your hair..."

He watches Grantaire's fingers dancing upon his palms, and doesn't say, _your self-destructive recklessness_. Grantaire nuzzles against his palm with his cheek. 

"What happened to him?" 

"I told you, he died." That comes out a little sharper than he had intended. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself to be honest instead of defensive. Softer, he adds, "he killed himself."

"Oh," Grantaire glances up quickly then returns his attention to Enjolras' palm. "I'm sorry." There is a pause where Grantaire presses a kiss to Enjolras' wrist. Enjolras shudders and Grantaire does it again. "Is that why you became an activist?" 

Another kiss.

"Part of it, I suppose." 

"Enjolras..." He sighs the name and runs his nose along Enjolras' life line. "I'm sorry for your loss." 

He looks up through his eyelashes, and he's so appealing in that moment that Enjolras' breath catches in his throat. 

Then the moment breaks. 

"Oh fuck," Grantaire says suddenly. He bounces to his knees, his eyes wild with panic. "What time is it?"

"Uhm, I--" Enjolras doesn't have a watch, and only knows that it's late. Really late. 

"Fuck, sorry," Grantaire scrambles off the bed and into the kitchen. Enjolras is stunned into stillness as he watches Grantaire flutter around to pour himself a glass of water and-- Enjolras hears the rattle of pills. 

"What are you doing?" 

Grantaire looks sheepish. "AZT break," he says with a wry, unhappy smirk.

Outside, it starts to snow. 

Grantaire takes his pills with a swig of water, and lingers in the dingy kitchen. He thrums his fingers on the counter and looks at Enjolras like he's asking permission to return to his own bed. 

"You?" 

"Me." He turns towards the window, watching the big white flakes float down. "You?"

Enjolras hesitates. "Me." He swallows, feeling words tight in his chest that can't escape. "Grantaire--" 

"Oh, babe, it's fine. I've got it too, the angel of death hanging over me." He spreads his arms, showing off his bruises and punctures, his constellation of needle points. "I haven't been exactly careful." 

He walks back over to the bed, coming to stand against Enjolras' knees. He traces Enjolras' hairline, drags the back of his hand across his cheek. 

"My boyfriend," Enjolras says, though the words threaten to choke him. He hasn't talked about it, at all, to anyone, ever. "He-- We didn't know, but--" 

"Sssh." Grantaire puts a finger to his lips. "You don't have to--" 

Hands on thin hips, Enjolras tugs Grantaire back down onto the bed, where he pulls him close and drops his head to Grantaire's shoulder. 

"You can live with it, you know. It's not a death sentence." Tentative fingers twist a bit of hair at the back of his neck.

"It feels like one," Enjolras admits, huffing out a miserable laugh. 

"You should smile more." 

Enjolras looks at him, really looks at him, and he does smile, just a little. Yes, Grantaire is a mess, but there's something hopeful about him, behind his shadowed eyes and cynical twist of a mouth. Yes, he's too thin, but his long, lean neck could belong to a statue, and his eyes are the most remarkable blue. And for whatever reason, he likes Enjolras. 

"You're staring again," Grantaire says, and Enjolras swells forward to kiss him, unable to help himself, pressing their lips together with a bit more force than he intended. Grantaire makes a little noise of surprise ("mmph!") which turns into a throaty moan as Enjolras leans forward, twisting their bodies so he can cover Grantaire and press him into the bed. 

They kiss languidly. Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras' neck, sliding his fingers into blonde hair properly, and taking hold. Enjolras has one hand on Grantaire's hip, feeling the bone against his palm. He counts ribs and traces sternum. They kiss and kiss, tongues sliding against each other, teeth occasionally clacking. Enjolras turns his head to press kisses to the crooks of Grantaire's elbows, feeling each scab and hot blood bruise. 

Granatire sighs and Enjolras kisses him gently on the lips again.

He holds him tightly against his chest, feeling his cold skin and wanting desperately to warm him. Kicking off his shoes, Enjolras pulls Grantaire fully into bed, and they curl together against the night air. Grantaire shifts them so his back is aligned against Enjolras' firm chest, and then with a happy sigh, he wriggles back, pulling strong, muscular arms around him. His bony fingers dig into Enjolras' muscles, holding him in place, but Enjolras doesn't need to be held. He's glad to be there. For the first time in a long time, there's someone warm in his arms. 

They sleep like that, wrapped up together. Grantaire clings to him, leeching warmth, and Enjolras clings right back, leeching affection. 

In the morning, Grantaire is sprawled out on the bed in a sweaty heap of shaking limbs and Enjolras watches him tremble and shiver until he can't take it any more. He shakes Grantaire awake, whispers, "Come downstairs when you're ready," and slips out the window. 

Grantaire lays on the bed, stares at the empty space that Enjolras left in his apartment, and then digs around on his bedside table for his stash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this were RENT, this would be mostly the little scene between Roger and Mimi before Maureen's protest. But it's not, so it's not. Also I am not pursuing the Maureen plot-line at all, which is probably obvious by now.


	5. la vie boheme/i should tell you

Enjolras returns to find his apartment aflutter with activity. Combeferre is making coffee, Feuilly is on the phone, Jehan is dashing around doing god knows what, and then disappears into the bathroom... and Courfeyrac is howling with laughter and screeching from the direction of Enjolras' bedroom. 

"Bahorel commandeered your bed during the night," Combeferre explains, handing over a hot mug. "Courf went to drag him out so we can go eat."

"Sounds like it's going well." 

There's a shriek and the sound of something crashing to the floor. 

"They're probably just tickling each other." 

"OW!" There's another crash.

"You know," Enjolras says, sipping his coffee. "I do own a few expensive things in there." 

"Fuck you!" Courfeyrac screams, which even draws Feuilly's attention, and then Bahorel gives a shout. 

More crashing, more thumping.

"I think they're fighting." Combeferre sighs, puts down his coffee cup, and strides off to break up the fight. 

"Cut it out!" He shouts as he rounds the corner into Enjolras' bedroom, and then there's a surprised holler as Courfeyrac and Bahorel undoubtedly pull him into the wrestling. 

Feuilly hangs up the phone and calls Joly and Bossuet, who say they're about to walk out the door and are on their way.

Finally Courfeyrac comes stumbling out of Enjolras' bedroom, laughing. His hair is a mess and his t-shirt is ripped at the shoulder. "There you are!" He claps Enjolras on the back and steals his coffee.

Bahorel emerges wearing one of Enjolras' shirts, which doesn't fit him at all. It stretches far too tightly across his broad chest, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. Bahorel shrugs and pours himself a cup of coffee. 

"That's a nice bed you've got in there." 

This all feels so familiar, like it was five years ago. It's good. 

Jehan emerges from the bathroom, looking cleaner and more fresh faced than anyone else, even though he's wearing yesterdays jeans. He skips over to Enjolras and gives him an almost painfully tight hug. Enjolras accepts it stiffly.

"You're stronger than you look."

"Weren't you listening when Feuilly explained how we met?" Jehan says softly, smiling with understated pride. "I fought off muggers and rescued him," he raises his fists like a boxers, "with these two hands and a garbage can lid." Enjolras looks closely and sees that the pale knuckles are in fact slightly scratched up.

Enjolras shakes his head, incredulous. And yet he can almost imagine flowery little Jehan beating up thugs with surprising fierceness. 

"Okay," Combeferre shows back up, takes a head count, and nods. "Ready to go?"

"Uhm," Enjolras says. "Wait." 

Why he doesn't just say that Grantaire is supposed to join them, he doesn't know. He gestures vaguely and goes into the bathroom. He doesn't like the look of his own face in the mirror; he looks tired and pale, and he has three days worth of scruff on his cheeks. And his hair is a birds nest, tangled and sticking up. Someone really should have mentioned that to him. 

He peels off his dirty shirt, washes his hair in the sink, shaves his face, and wets a washcloth to wash under his armpits. He feels slightly better once all this is done. He picks at a spot on his collarbone for a moment, deciding eventually that it's not a lesion but more likely a bruise. It might also just be dirt.

Still shirtless, he steps out of the bathroom. Courfeyrac whistles, and Enjolras waves him off; "One second." 

It takes him a while to find a clean shirt among the mess Bahorel and Courfeyrac have made of his room, but eventually he does. Once he's gotten himself in order he rejoins his friends, feeling refreshed. Grantaire is sitting on the fire escape chatting with Jehan, who is half leaning out the window with his ankles crossed behind him. 

Grantaire looks good this morning, bright and happy and with his hair half way to tidiness. He spots Enjolras and his lazy smile widens. His eyes are almost manically bright, and the way the sun hits them makes them look impossibly clear and blue. He's wearing green jeans today, and a black sweater that threatens to fall off his shoulders at any moment. 

"Hey Peter Pan," Enjolras says, leaning out the window beside Jehan. 

"Hello Wendy-bird," Grantaire blushes and cranes his neck to give Enjolras a soft kiss on the cheek.

"That is so cute," Jehan coos. 

"Shut up," Enjolras says, giving Jehan a teasing shove. Grantaire laughs. "Nothing's official, don't get all giggly about it." 

"No, no," Jehan says, laughing, definitely getting giggly. "The Peter Pan thing. That's adorable." 

"Well, one of us is a child and the other one takes life seriously." 

Grantaire pouts, playing at being offended. "Oh my," Jehan laughs. 

The sun is bright and the snow from last night has mostly melted, though a little still lingers on the railings outside. The world feels somehow fresh and washed clean. 

"Come inside," Enjolras says, offering his hand. Grantaire takes it, and clambers into the apartment. Jehan dips back inside after them and closes the window. He scampers off to join Feuilly in the kitchen.

Enjolras leads Grantaire over to the group, still trailing his hand. "Courfeyrac, Bahorel, you didn't meet Grantaire, did you? He lives upstairs. He's joining us for whatever... meal or drunken revelry you have planned." 

"Hi," Grantaire says with a shy duck of his head and an artfully innocent smile. Now _this_ is a performance.

"Don't be fooled by the innocent act," Combeferre says, nudging Courfeyrac in the ribs. "He keeps breaking into our apartment." 

Bahorel laughs and slings an arm around Grantaire's shoulders, pulling him into the group. "Breaking and entering! Perfect!" 

"No breaking," Grantaire says, looking to Enjolras like he wants rescuing. "Just entering." He smiles and the glitter in his eyes drives Enjolras to frustration.

"And molesting Enjolras," Combeferre adds under his breath; Bahorel bursts into another loud fit of laughter and gives Grantaire a rough shake. 

"Okay, okay," Enjolras says, pulling Grantaire back to his side and away from Bahorel's muscles. "Let's get going. Everyone put on coats, I don't want anyone catching pneumonia." There's a shuffle as they all try and find their jackets from where they had thrown them last night. "And Bahorel? Please take off my shirt and find something that fits you. You look obscene."

They walk in a big clump to a cafe on the corner of A and 6th, their once upon a time favorite spot, the Musain. Enjolras leaves Grantaire with Bahorel and Jehan so he can walk with Courfeyrac. They catch up on details a bit, Courfeyrac telling story after story of adventures on the west coast, of beautiful girls and boys and glitter. He pulls up his sleeves to show off his tan, which Enjolras can't really see. 

"You wouldn't know what a tan looked like if it hit you in the face," Courfeyrac says petulantly. Enjolras slaps himself lightly on the cheek before Courfeyrac can do it. 

"Nope," he says, looking again, "still pale." 

"Wow, a joke. I'm impressed."

The Musain is just as it always was-- warm, bright, cluttered, smelling of coffee and liquor and the sweat of too many bodies crammed into its little booths and tables. 

Bahorel orders pitchers of beer for them all, even though it's literally barely afternoon. Jehan orders himself a bottle of wine, because, as he explains with an impish smirk, he's _delicate_. He and Grantaire sit at the end of the table, two outsiders in a group of old friends. Jehan is much beloved already, and Feuilly's gaze never wanders too far from him, even as he chats with Bahorel. A pair of artists, Grantaire and Jehan have plenty to talk about, but Jehan is keen to focus on what happened the previous night and leans across the table conspiratorially to whisper to Grantaire. 

"Tell me he's a good kisser," he says, glancing at Enjolras, who is outlining a protest he's been half thinking about to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, gesticulating with expressive wrists and fingers. "He's so beautiful, I'd be furious if he wasn't."

Grantaire blushes slightly, his pale cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink. He nods and Jehan gives a giggling squeal of delight, and turns to share the news with Feuilly. 

Joly and Bossuet arrive soon after, entering the cafe with a flurry of snow coming in behind them. Joly is utterly over bundled, and if he weren't with Bossuet, it wouldn't be clear it was him at all. He peels off layers as he approaches the table, finally regaining human shape as he slides into the chair next to Bahorel. Bossuet sits between Feuilly and Courfeyrac, and pours himself a beer right away.

"You won't believe the trouble we had getting here," he says like he's resigned to encountering all sorts of trouble, which he is. 

Joly shakes his shoulders, chasing away the last of the chill with a sip of Bossuet's drink, though he's obviously searching for the waiter so he can order something of his own. 

"All together again, back where we belong," Courfeyrac says, lifting his glass. "A toast to the reunited Friends of the ABC!" 

"Here, here!" Comes the resounding cry from around the table, as glasses are clinked and sips are taken. Jehan and Grantaire toast each other, confused.

"What's this ABC thing, then?" Grantaire asks, smiling vaguely towards Enjolras and Combeferre at the far end of the table.

Courfeyrac laughs, and shifts in his seat to explain: "Long, long ago, we all lived within three blocks of each other. Joly and Bossuet here lived on Avenue A, sharing an apartment with a lovely lady who they have since lost touch with, shamefully." He tsks-tsks, waggling his finger. "Combeferre, Bahorel and I lived an incongruous existence on Avenue B, with a fair amount of riff-raff drifting in and out too. Combeferre hated every second of it, and spent most of his time at Enjolras' place." After a playful punch to Combeferre's shoulder, he continues; "and then, over on C, Feuilly and Enjolras lived a bohemian lifestyle of sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll." He laughs and Enjolras rolls his eyes aggressively. "But mostly frustrating intellectualism and political philosophy. You can imagine how sexy and exciting that was." He laughs a boisterous and infectious laugh. Grantaire is smiling along; Jehan has his hand comfortably settled on Feuilly's wrist. 

"Therefore," Courfeyrac spreads his hands, like a magician showing off the final solution of his trick. "A, B, C. And here we all are."

"What changed?" Jehan asks, innocently enough. 

"Uhm, well," Courfeyrac glances at Enjolras, and the mood at the table shifts abruptly towards the miserable. 

It's impossible not to pick up on, and Jehan looks a little mortified that he caused it. 

"Joly and I got work that moved us uptown, for one," Bossuet jumps in, a little too eager. 

"And Bahorel and I went to LA," Courfeyrac says. Bahorel stays silent, but looks pointedly at Enjolras, who is staring intently at the wood grain of the table. 

He looks up only to make eye contact with Grantaire, who understands. 

_And my long term boyfriend killed himself, and everyone spooked because I fell apart, and so living arrangements had to be changed,_ is what that glance expresses. Enjolras looks quietly away and he picks at his fingernails, exuding sadness and bitterness while shaking his head. 

Enjolras wants to chide them, all of them, for still walking on eggshells around him about it. Maybe if they didn't all act like it was some huge secret, and that if they mention it Enjolras will collapse again, he'd have an easier time moving forward. He wants to tell them that that they're allowed to talk about it.

But he doesn't. 

It's quiet, dead quiet, for a while.

In the time it takes for conversation to start back up, Grantaire and Jehan have finished their bottle of wine and ordered another. 

They spend the entire afternoon at the Musain, catching up and drinking. Bahorel has unbelievable stories of dog fights in LA alleys and hooking up with celebrities and getting thrown out of clubs. Feuilly regales them with tales of the research and teaching he's been doing, of frustrating students and extraordinary works of art. Jehan has a story to respond to every story, and they enact a sort of Canterbury Tales without the pilgrimage, trading story for story as they sit around their large table in the middle of the Musain.

Afternoon drinks turns into dinner turns into being rip-roaring drunk by 8pm, and they end up dancing on the table and shouting, much to the chagrin of the management. Half the place has joined them, a bunch of skinny students swarming around their little group, caught up in their energy and verve. This is nearly just how it always was before, the way they used to spend their nights at the Musian-- they would talk and laugh and plan, and then drink and dance and wreck havoc before spilling out into the street to stumble home. But now there are two new members of their little gang and they are practically leading the charge into the second half of the evening; Grantaire and Jehan twist and shimmy together, showing off the dancing prowess unique to each of them. Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, then pulls Enjolras up onto the table with him, despite protestations, grinding against him and pushing him against Bahorel's strong back-- who, for his part, is forcing Combeferre to dance a little, which is quite the accomplishment. Courfeyrac is on the other side of Combeferre, grabbing ass wherever he can. 

"I want to talk to you," Grantaire says in a loud whisper against Enjolras' ear. "Did I do something wrong? You invite me out and then ignore me the whole time." He drops his volume and continues, "You slept in my bed last night and now you've hardly spoken to me at all." 

"I know, and I'm sorry. I'm not perfect, okay? Let's go outside." 

"I don't know," Grantaire says as Enjolras takes his hand and they hop off the table, heading towards the back door of the cafe. "You seem pretty perfect to me." As they sneak out Jehan blows them kisses. Grantaire's place on the table is filled by Feuilly almost immediately as he sweeps giggling Jehan up in his arms, covering his face in kisses. 

"Come here, angel," they hear as they slip out the door, and then another fit of giggles.

In contrast, it's very quiet outside, and cold.

"It's snowing again," Grantaire comments idly. 

"Listen," Enjolras says, ignoring the small talk and grabbing Grantaire's elbow to stop him walking. 

They stand face to face in the alleyway, Grantaire with his arms wrapped around himself against the cold. "It's just..."

"You had second thoughts? You changed your mind."

"No, it's just... I have baggage."

"Yeah, me too. Life's too short and it's flying by, Enjolras. Everyone has baggage; I'm just looking for baggage that goes with mine." He smiles, hopeful. 

"No, Grantaire, I mean--"

"I've got baggage too," He reaches out to brush Enjolras' sleeve. "We have the same baggage."

"No," Enjolras says, a little coldly. "We don't." 

Grantaire tugs his sleeves over his hands and shies away, spinning on his heel off into the alley. Enjolras follows, catching him again. "It's just... I'm a disaster. I'm not nice... I don't remember how to begin." 

Grantaire throws his arms around Enjolras' neck, and Enjolras suddenly remembers that Grantaire has at least half a bottle of wine in him, on top of who knows what else; "Can't we just get through this part? Can't we just skip to the good parts?" 

"I want you to have the full picture, that's all."

"Oh," Grantaire furrows his forehead. "You want to be honest? Okay, I'll start." His forehead smooths into an expression of serious thought and he ruffles his own hair. "I had matches that first night, up in my apartment. I just wanted an excuse to meet you." 

Enjolras smiles at that, despite himself. "I don't think I'd smiled in six months before you climbed through my window." 

"Thank you for your honesty," Grantaire says gently, inching closer. "You're not going to scare me off," he whispers right before their lips meet.

It's almost chaste, the brush of their lips, and Enjolras doesn't think he'll ever forget this moment as they kiss in an alley in lower Manhattan, snow falling all around them. This kiss is more important than their first kiss, more important than the kisses of the previous night. 

"Well," Grantaire says, trying to control the grin that's spreading across his face. His eyes crinkle and Enjolras kisses both his cheeks. "Here we go."

"Here we go." He huffs out a laugh, pressing forward for another kiss, amazed that he's standing at all, and not dead or a wreck in bed or still at _home_ for god's sake. That he's standing outside the back of the Musain with a beautiful boy in his arms, no matter how damaged they both might be. Grantaire has gotten him properly out of the house for the first time in what feels like six months, at least. And it feels... nice. Like there's something real between them. "Right. Who knows?"

They kiss until snow begins to accumulate in their hair and on their shoulders. Grantaire, who as usual is neither wearing a coat nor is dressed appropriately for the weather, shivers against Enjolras' chest.

"Yes." They're holding hands, standing in the snow, smiling and flushed from kissing. "Who knows?" 

"I feel like... It's like..." Enjolras doesn't know how to say it, exactly. He used to be so good at so many things-- at playing guitar, at public speaking, at being a leader, at using his words, at rousing a crowd, at flirting, at falling in love, at being in love... and how he's not sure he's good at any of those things. It's been too long and he's out of practice. 

But his heart says it's going to be alright.

"Trust me," Grantaire says, and Enjolras does. "Trust this." He smiles sweetly, a look of ineffable affection in his eyes. "Take a leap with me." 

"Okay," Enjolras breathes, for a moment almost forgetting Grantaire's addictions and his bruises, able to ignore his own soul-deep hurt for just a moment. "Okay." 

And he smiles, as warm and genuine a smile as he can muster, with great purpose.

And Grantaire shivers.

"Okay, let's go back inside," Enjolras says quickly, brushing through any embarrassment he might feel and throwing an arm around Grantaire's thin shoulders. 

"Yes thank you."

"Quick before you turn into an ice cube."

"That only happens in cartoons," Grantaire says very seriously. "Now who's being a child?"

Enjolras pouts his lip and nods, faking at being serious. When did he last feel this playful? When did he last feel this alive? "You make a fair point," he concedes. "But still, if it would happen to anyone, it would happen to you."

Grantaire punches him lightly in the chest and they're still laughing as they step back through the door into the cafe. 

The Friends of the ABC are still carousing on the table, all of them-- Bahorel and Courfeyrac have found their way to each other and are dancing lewdly together, throwing rude gestures towards the wait staff who stand aghast near the front door. Clearly none of them worked here when they were all regulars. Those guys were champions who often sat in on their meetings, joined in on their cafe riots, and late night revelries. Joly is clinging to Bossuet for dear life, terrified of falling despite his cheery smile. 

Enjolras stops for a moment to bask in the glow of his friends. He's smiling so hard that it hurts his cheeks. Grantaire brushes snow from his own shoulders and from Enjolras' hair, his fingers light and his smile bright. His nose is a little pink from the cold. 

Enjolras slides his arms around Grantaire's waist and pulls him in for a last kiss before they rejoin the others. It's mostly teeth, because he can't stop smiling, but Grantaire doesn't seem to mind and merely puts his arms around Enjolras' neck, savoring this moment of closeness.

One by one, all his friends notice their return. Combeferre spots them first, and the glow of Enjolras' happiness stills his dancing (which has turned awkwardly energetic while they were away) as a warm smile trickles across his own features. Feuilly notices next, turning from Jehan and giving a shout of approval. 

This draws Courfeyrac's attention, who whistles, and Bahorel's, who gives a little cat call and leaps off the table. He's flushed with drink and the pleasure of reliving happy memories with his friends, and he rushes over the the couple in the corner and pulls them both into a bear hug which drags them fully back into the room.

"Well done, well done!" Bossuet shouts, raising his glass above his head. 

"I knew it!" 

"Lovely, lovely!"

"That'a boy!" Bahorel has Grantaire by the waist and heaves him back up onto the table. "Welcome to the club, little fella!" Grantaire gives a frustrated groan that devolves into laughter as Bahorel tickles him until he starts dancing. Enjolras clambers onto the table of his own volition, twirling Grantaire away from Bahorel and taking his place pressed against Grantaire's body. They sway together, pressed forehead to forehead.

They dance the night away, chest to chest, hand in hand, face to face, surrounded by laughter and warmth and dear friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there's the end of act 1, basically.


	6. happy new year

For the seven days between Christmas and New Years, it's the old gang back together again. 

Jehan and Grantaire fall into the group with an easy grace, and almost immediately it's like they've never belonged anywhere else, and before their arrival the ABCs were actually missing two vitally important pieces. 

On Christmas Day, Joly and Bossuet come from uptown with take-out Lebanese food, and they don't leave when the day is over. The night falls along with the snow, and there's a moment when Joly looks at his watch, and then at Bossuet, and they both shrug and settle back onto the couch. 

Bahorel runs out to buy booze before the stores close, and returns with enough liquor in arm to keep them drunk for a week, though he claims it's just to "last the night." 

His return is met with cheers from Jehan and Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly, and they all crack out the Stoli right away. 

So Christmas is spent drunk and laughing. 

Bahorel, Jehan and Grantaire get along swimmingly from the first and spend half of the day playing word games and arm wrestling, though Grantaire's skinny arms lose him every round and eventually he quits trying. There's much cheering and side-taking from everyone else. They place bets, most of which fall in Jehan's favor, annoying Bahorel to no end. They don't stop arm wrestling until Bahorel wins a round, which takes half the afternoon.

"Okay, okay, are you happy?" Jehan says, rubbing at his sore muscles. 

"Yes," Bahorel says, and finishes his drink.

Feuilly settles himself in the armchair with all the paper bags from the liquor and a pen, and sits back to watch the proceedings and sketch through the evening. 

"We can stay here, right?" Bossuet asks as the night drags on. He's in the kitchen, supposedly helping Combeferre with the dishes, though after breaking a second glass he's stopped helping and is more just watching.

"Of course," Combeferre says, pleased as punch. "We'd love to have you." 

"Oh good. Joly hates taking the late night trains, you know," Bossuet says casually, running his fingers along the edge of a mug on the counter. 

"Sure, sure." 

Enjolras and Grantaire are on the couch, hands tangled casually together, Grantaire with his legs thrown over Enjolras' lap and his head in Jehans, who is lounging at the other end of the couch. Jehan is reciting poetry from memory while simultaneously working little braids into Grantaire's hair. 

It's beautiful. 

The sun set hours ago, and their energy peacefully went with it. It's been a quiet evening of Jehan's poetry, Courfeyrac plucking at Enjolras' guitar-- "I learned to play the ukelele in LA. It's similar, right?"-- and Joly's continuous talk of the horrible diseases he sees coming through the ER, all of which could be caused by the living conditions they are all currently sitting in. 

Just like old times, but with a bit more artistry. 

Jehan starts improvising: "Twas Christmas Day and all through the loft, not a creature was stirring, not even Bahorel."

Which is true, as Bahorel had dozed off on the floor a few minutes before, stretched out on his back.

Everyone laughs, but quietly enough so as not to wake him. 

"I'm going to draw on his face later," Courfeyrac says dreamily while strumming out a horrible chord. 

"Please stop mangling my guitar," Enjolras says, "and be thankful the rats are quiet too."

"Do you have those awful ones too?" Jehan says with a little too much excitement, leaning towards Enjolras in a way that displaces Grantaire's sleepy position upon his lap. He flusters and bats at Jehan's shoulders. "The ones that try and open your windows?" 

"Yes! They're horrifying!" 

Combeferre chimes in the from the kitchen: "I woke up to one trying to nibble at my hair once." 

Jehan gives a shudder, and Grantaire rolls off his lap onto the floor. He crawls along, half unseen for a moment, but Enjolras catches him as he passes behind the couch. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Upstairs," Grantaire says, not making eye contact as he gives a tug at his arm, testing Enjolras' hold. He looks wistfully to the window. "I'll be right back." 

"Why?" 

"I just have to run upstairs for a second, calm down." 

Enjolras looks at him hard, his hand tightly around Grantaire's elbow. He sees the little sheen of sweat on his forehead and above his upper lip, despite the chill in the apartment. It all becomes frustratingly, annoyingly clear. 

"Don't," Enjolras says, trying to be soft, though as always there's a hard edge to his voice... which makes Grantaire frown and grit his teeth. "Just stay here with me."

"It'll be just a minute, Wendy-bird. Don't be such a grown up." He smiles, traces Enjolras' hairline and then kisses his cheek, pulls his arm free, and scampers off, out the window and off to Neverland. He throws Enjolras a playful smirk as he climbs out, his hair fluttering around his face, and in that moment he looks so utterly like the boy who won't grow up-- with the little braids in his dark hair, his skinny, colorful jeans, his thin wrists and bright eyes-- that Enjolras' heart clenches tightly in his chest. 

Annoyed, partially at Grantaire and partially at himself, Enjolras gets off the couch. The rat conversation is still going on, though Joly has chimed in to share the horrors and history of the bubonic plague. Stretching his arms, Enjolras goes over to Feuilly, who has been quietly working the whole night. 

"What're you up to?" 

"Oh," Feuilly says, "not much. Just a little idle practice." But he spreads out his scraps of brown paper and Enjolras comes face to face with portraits of all his friends.

"Oh wow," he says, picking through the papers. They're beautiful; they all look so handsome, and romanticized and slightly Georgian in their styling, as if drawn by Millais. There are whimsical flowers decorating every edge, tucked behind ears and woven into hair. Eyelashes fall over marble cheeks, lips turn up in smiles, hands prop up heavy chins. Collars are open to reveal elegant necks and peeks of chest hair. Each of the portraits are unique, but it's clear they're a series-- Bahorel's is dynamic and active, his eyes flashing through the lines of the pen, the small scar on his cheek highlighted by his crooked smile, while Combeferre's is still and serene, thoughtful and warm, eyes down as if reading; Jehan's is sprinkled with flowers and laughter and a calm softness, each line of his hair lovingly rendered; Courfeyrac's is a dreamy sketch of a young man who could be Byron, surrounded by music and somehow, even in ink, managing to exude a sexual undercurrent. Feuilly has perfectly captured waves of hair and the slight crinkle of eyes mid-laugh. 

"I didn't know you could draw like this," Enjolras says, holding the portrait of Joly up to compare with the real thing; the nervous quirk of his eyebrows is utterly perfect. "Though I suppose I should have... These are amazing. Tell me again why you aren't teaching at SCAD anymore?"

Feuilly shrugs and pushes forward two sheets that Enjolras hasn't looked at yet. The one on top is Grantaire and Enjolras' first impression is that he looks sad. His half-lidded eyes look off to the left and a weak smile graces his mouth. His hair is a halo of dark scratches, with a little braid picked out here or a curl there. "Oh, Feuilly..." He wants to hang this in his room, hang it on the inside of his eyelids and look at it forever. He stares longer than he should. 

"What are we looking at?" Comes a voice from over his shoulder, and he turns, startled, to come face to face with Grantaire. He's returned. Enjolras looks from the paper in front of him, the curve of Grantaire's cheek in black ink on rough brown paper, to the real thing. Grantaire throws a sloppy smile at him, his eyes bright but a little glassy, and leans over to pluck up a few of the drawings. 

"These are gorgeous," he says as he looks at them. "Look at charming Bossuet! Ha!" He laughs because it is a perfectly captured look of apology, a familiar look to anyone who has been around Bossuet when he trips up the stairs or knocks over a glass. "And Enjolras, look at you..." His voice grows soft, and his breath brushes Enjolras' cheek, and together they look at the little portrait. 

Enjolras looks like a golden god. His face is prideful and serious, his jaw set, his hair is glowing, somehow, wild and much longer than it is now, falling in curls over his forehead and around his ears... This is a drawing of a man he no longer recognizes as himself, a drawing of Enjolras the boy, of wild mistakes and whirlwind passions. Grantaire ruffles Enjolras' short hair. 

"This isn't me," Enjolras says quietly, still looking over the drawing. Grantaire kisses his ear. 

"Look at how beautiful you are." 

Enjolras looks to Feuilly, who shrugs. "It's how I remember you. You weren't like this," he gestures up and down, to Enjolras' short, tidy hair and quiet sadness, "for most of our friendship." 

"You look like..." Grantaire pauses, lifting the drawing to look at it directly. His arms are around Enjolras' shoulders, his chin at the crook of his neck. "Like Apollo or something." 

Enjolras snorts and snatches the picture away, embarrassed. "There's a reason I cut my stupid hair off." 

Grantaire snatches it back. "May I keep it?" He asks Feuilly, who nods. "Can I keep all of them?" He starts to stack the papers, looking over them reverently. "Wait," he says, holding a half sheet in his fingers that Enjolras hadn't noticed before, "who's this?" 

Feuilly snaps to attention and makes a grab for the paper, but Grantaire keeps it out of reach. He turns the sheet around to show to Enjolras, looking for help. 

Enjolras' heart drops in to his stomach, and from the look on Grantaire's face, it's clear how he's affected. 

"That's..." he begins, looking at the picture. The uneven hair, the confident smile, the dangerous glint of the eyes... "It's August." 

"August?" Grantaire looks to Feuilly, then to Enjolras, and then back to the drawing. And then he understands. "Oh."

The dead boyfriend.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras," Feuilly says gently, taking the drawing back and folding it up into the smallest square possible. "I'm sorry." 

Enjolras forces a shrug, looking back to the drawings of the friends that surround him now, back to the drawing of Grantaire, still held loosely in his hands. The difference between the two is amazing, between the past and the present. Where August was sharp and frightful, his smile always a razor edge, Grantaire is soft and sweet and lackadaisical. But their dark hair is the same, and their reckless energy.

"He's handsome," Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras from his reverie and pressing a long, lingering kiss to the crest of his cheekbone. "You have good taste." Taking up a blank scrap of paper he plucks the pen out of Feuilly's hand and settles at the coffee table. "Here--" He stares at Enjolras for a second, then begins to draw. 

Finally, he hands it over and while the style is completely different than Feuilly's, the final product is no less accurate or expressive. Grantaire's drawing presents Enjolras as he is now, only smiling, his hair short and eyes tired, but he is smiling. It is a less detailed drawing, but somehow it makes a perfect match to Feuilly's portrait of Grantaire. Enjolras lays them side by side and the two figures are nearly looking at each other, quiet smiles forever in place. 

"You draw too?" 

"I went to art school for a year," Grantaire says with a shrug, smiling coyly. Enjolras looks at him; there's so much he doesn't know about Grantaire, so much unsaid, so many mysteries.

From across the room, Bossuet and Courfeyrac erupt into a chorus of "Ding Dong Merrily on High", and Jehan joins them to harmonize. 

From the floor, Bahorel jolts awake with fists flying and everyone bursts into laughter. 

Grantaire takes Enjolras' hand and rubs their cheeks together.

Christmas comes and goes, and everyone stays. 

For the nine of them, they count three beds (including Grantaire's, upstairs), one couch and an armchair. This makes sleeping arrangements for the week into a complicated cycle of sleeping on the floor. On Christmas night, Feuilly and Jehan claim Enjolras' bed immediately, Joly and Bossuet sidle their way into Combeferre's, much to his chagrin. Courfeyrac spreads out on the couch while Combeferre ends up in the armchair, legs stretched out in front of him. Bahorel's doze on the floor turns into a sleep on the floor. 

(In the morning, he has a horrible crick in his back, which not even Jehan's clever fingers, elbows, and toes can work out. The next night Bahorel is sure to claim a bed right away, despite the protests of the couples-- though Courfeyrac and Combeferre don't let him keep it to himself.)

Enjolras and Grantaire sneak out the window and up the fire escape, retreating to curl against the cold together in Grantaire's bed. 

"You have a couch up here," Enjolras says once they're settled. "Someone could be sleeping on that."

Grantaire shrugs sleepily. "Oh well." 

By the way he presses his body against Enjolras', hip to hip and legs tangled together, it's clear he has no intention of telling anyone about the couch. 

Feuilly's sketches sit in a pile on Grantaire's bedside table, and he pulls them onto the bed so the pair of them look over the drawings together. 

"I like your friends," Grantaire says as his fingers trace the sketched line of Courfeyrac's nose.

"I thought they were too 'boisterous'," Enjolras says, running his fingers along the sinew of his arms. He kisses his way down the hard edge of Grantaire's spine. 

"That was days and days ago," Grantaire laughs, purring under Enjolras' attentions. "And I must admit, the prospect of being tackled wasn't very appealing at the time."

"Is it appealing now?" 

"Depends on who's doing the tackling," Grantaire sighs, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. Pushing the drawings away, he shifts his body, turning to face Enjolras and be closer to him. He hums as Enjolras kisses his navel, licks his sternum. 

"Oh?" Enjolras presses a wet kiss to Grantaire's jaw, then scrapes down this throat with his teeth.

"Oh yeah," Grantaire says, even as Enjolras mouths at the hollow of his collarbones. "Courfeyrac, for example. You've seen him from behind, right?" Enjolras laughs and bites down gently. Grantaire gives a happy purr. 

"Courf is the obvious choice. Try again." 

"Is Bahorel obvious too?" Grantaire says, threading his fingers through Enjolras' hair, tugging him up to kiss his forehead. "Because his arms are extraordinary. How about Joly? I love his smile--" 

Enjolras silences him with a press of lips. They laugh and kiss and Grantaire says, "How is it possible all your friends are so hot?" 

"Luck, I guess."

"Well, they all pale compared to you." 

"Shut up."

"It's true," Grantaire says softly, his eyes raking over Enjolras' face. "They do." 

In the dim light of their one candle, Grantaire looks like white marble, pure and clean; he's like a ghost or an illusion. Enjolras holds him tightly, grasping to the surety of bones and tendons under his hands. In comparison, Enjolras' hand against Grantaire's cheek looks nearly tan. Grantaire licks salt from Enjolras' palm and cheeks and lips. 

How different they are. 

"This is the best Christmas I've ever had," Grantaire says as they settle in to sleep, arms around each other. 

"Me too," Enjolras sighs, pressing one last kiss to Grantaire's cheek before drifting off.

 

The next week passes far too quickly, full of laughter and too much drinking. 

By the time New Years rolls around, Joly and Bossuet are finally considering going back uptown while Bahorel and Courfeyrac have had a series of whispered conversations in which they discuss whether or not they _actually_ have to go back to LA. They're still undecided on New Years Eve. 

They go out to dinner, which lasts four hours, and afterwards stumble around the neighborhood to waste time before midnight. 

Jehan drags them all to an art show in the basement of a dive bar, though only Courfeyrac and Joly end up actually spending any time looking at the art-- which, judging by the looks on their faces, they find completely horrifying, despite Jehan's enthusiastic explanations. The rest of them go upstairs to get drunk. 

Somewhere along the way Bahorel, Bossuet and Feuilly wander off, and for a little while it's just Combeferre, Enjolras and Grantaire, wandering the busy streets alone. 

Enjolras ends up in a half-drunken fight with the beautiful drug dealer on Avenue B, and before they all know it, he's leading an impromptu rally from a stoop, even though the drug dealer sauntered off a while ago. He gets on a tear and people are stopping to listen to him, a crowd forming at his feet. He argues the rights of the many, the importance of health care and information campaigns. With a fire he hasn't felt in months and months, he outlines the injustices enacted against the poor, the discrimination against those who are sick, or out of the norm, or both. He can't remember the last time he spoke this well or the last time anyone listened. 

It's his fire. It was gone for so long, but now, suddenly, it's back and he stands proud and capable and fierce. 

He is on _fire_ and there is a crowd listening to his words and nodding in agreement and talking heatedly amongst themselves.

Out in the crowd, Grantaire and Combeferre stand elbow to elbow, looking up at him in awe, surrounded by people with similar expressions on their faces. 

Enjolras' hair catches the glow from a streetlamp, and he throws a hand in the air with a gesture that would suit the greatest of Roman orators. The sight knocks the breath from Grantaire's lungs. "Is he always like this?" Grantaire asks when he finds his words again.

"Not for a long time," Combeferre smiles, looking at Enjolras with a warm sort of pride, and then to Grantaire with a different kind of fondness. "You're a good influence on him." 

Enjolras punches the side of the building behind him in his fervor, breaking open the skin on his knuckles. 

"And he's a little drunk," Combeferre says quickly, rushing forward to pull Enjolras down from the stoop before he causes trouble and starts a riot. 

"You done good, fella" Grantaire says gently, taking Enjolras' elbow. Combeferre takes the other side and the pair of them lead him away. 

"Thank you." Enjolras looks proudly to the crowd dispersing around them, and then turns to Grantaire and plants a kiss on him that nearly knocks them all off the sidewalk and into the street. "I'm very impressive, I know."

"Cool it. You're supposed to be the responsible one here." Enjolras barks out a laugh. "Hey, Combeferre, what time is it?" 

"Uhm," he checks his watch; "Three minutes to midnight."

"Shit!" Grantaire looks around as if expecting the rest of their friends to be in the crowd. "Where is everyone?" 

"Any resolutions, Grantaire?" Combeferre asks, guiding the three of them back towards the art show, hoping to find at least Jehan, Courfeyrac and Joly again before midnight.

"I'm giving up my vices," he says, looking to Enjolras for approval. "Or I'll try. And I'm thinking of going back to school. What's another loan, right?" 

"Good for you!" Combeferre says with a laugh. 

"I've got a good feeling about this year." Grantaire pulls Enjolras closer to his side, taking his hand. 

"How about you, Enjolras? Resolutions?" 

Enjolras wavers. "I don't know. Become a lobbyist." He laughs a little bitterly. 

"You could do that," Grantaire says. "You'd be great at that."

"Don't be stupid."

At which point Jehan and Bahorel come charging down the street, howling like wild dogs.

"There you are!" Jehan shouts, waving a bottle of champagne. "Where's everyone else?" 

"Here we are!" Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly, and Bossuet come rounding the corner in a clump, each holding a bottle of their own. As usual when they're all reunited, there's a mess of stumbling bodies as they all crash into each other.

"Why aren't you working tonight?" Enjolras whispers in Grantaire's ear. He shivers.

"Don't worry about it," he whispers back, deflecting the question with ease and a purposefully sexy flutter of his eyelashes; "I'll dance for you later." 

Courfeyrac whistles and gestures at his watch; "Hey lovebirds! Almost time!" 

"I can't believe we're all here." 

"May the shrine of friendship never say die!" Jehan shouts, slurring a little as he grabs hold of Feuilly. 

Bahorel gives a cheer, pulling Joly and Combeferre into a tight hug. 

"To poetry!" 

"To art!" 

"To booze!"

"To life!" 

"To love!"

"To you!"

"To you!"

"To us!"

All around them, the countdown begins. "May the wine of friendship never run dry!" And Jehan cracks open the bottle of champagne, which sprays everywhere. Little bubbles sprinkle down on them, and they laugh and howl and dance, as wild as ever. They pass the bottle around quick as can be, each having a sip before midnight hits. 

The countdown finishes and nine voices ring out in unison with a shouted "Happy New Year!" 

Feuilly sweeps Jehan into a kiss, which turns into Jehan throwing his legs around Feuilly's waist and the pair of them stumbling against the wall of a nearby building to make out. 

"Happy New Year, Enjolras." Grantaire puts an arm around his neck and leans in to press their foreheads together. 

"I'm really glad I met you, but I gotta buy you some chapstick if we're gonna keep this up."

They kiss, laughing against each others mouths, but it's nothing like the public display of affection happening off to their left-- From against the wall, Jehan gives a squeak which transforms a low growl. 

"I'm glad I met you too. This week has been... great."

"You're telling me." Enjolras pulls Grantaire close, an arm around his waist. He wants to explain that in the past week his life has gone from dust, all but over, to alive and exciting and promising, but all he manages is to plant one more quick peck to Grantaire's mouth before Courfeyrac bursts their bubble, pulling them apart so he can steal New Years kisses for himself. 

"I just love you all so much!" He shouts before throwing himself onto Bahorel's back. The pair of them go galloping off down the street, followed closely by Joly and Bossuet. Combeferre looks around him, at the drunken mess that is all of his friends, and shakes his head fondly. 

"Well, I should go make sure those four don't get arrested," he sighs, giving Enjolras a pat on the shoulder and Grantaire a wink. With a tilt of his head, he gestures to Feuilly and Jehan against the wall; "Make sure these two don't get public indecency." 

Grantaire laughs, taking Enjolras' hand and leaning against his shoulder as Combeferre jogs off. 

"It's gonna be a good year!" 

"Yeah," Enjolras says, looking purposefully at Grantaire, "I think it will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter sortof got away from me. I just love everyone so much. 
> 
> And to be perfectly honest, I want to draw out the happy bits as long as I can.


	7. without you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so that drug use warning is in full effect for this chapter, just to be safe, and also there's some blood.

The holidays over, everyone goes home.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel say their good-byes on the fifth, having decided it was actually necessary to return west. Courfeyrac hugs everyone and cries a little, quiet, wet tears sliding down his cheeks. While Bahorel doesn't cry his hugs hurt twice as much. He presses kisses to cheeks and promises to send postcards. 

"Be safe, little ones," he says as he hugs Jehan and Grantaire. To Enjolras, he says, "you too. And if you ever need anything, you have to call." 

"Okay, Bahorel, but I think we can manage." 

"Well, if you ever can't..." Bahorel pulls Enjolras in for a tight, long hug, nearly lifting him off the ground. "You know I'll help." 

"I know." 

Courfeyrac puts a hand on Bahorel's shoulder; "Come on, or we'll be late." 

After bestowing upon Combeferre one last hug, and a kiss on each cheek, he and Bahorel disappear down into the subway. 

"They'll be back," Jehan says, linking arms with Enjolras and starting them on a stroll back towards the apartment. 

Joly and Bossuet head uptown to get back to work, promising to be better about visiting on weekends. 

 

They have a happy five months. A very happy five months. Enjolras basically moves upstairs with Grantaire, while Jehan and Feuilly move into his abandoned bedroom. Between the five of them they even manage to pay the rent, including some of the rent they back owe, which puts off the eviction they've been courting. 

They do okay for a while.

Grantaire gets a little meat on his bones and it suits him. Jehan gives him a crisp, fashionable haircut in early February which Enjolras can't stop touching. It makes him look older and tougher, and somehow immensely sexier. That haircut leads to a lot of make out sessions against the fridge and on the kitchen floor and in the shower. Grantaire reports an increase in tips at work, and takes them all out to dinner with a proud glint in his eyes. 

Postcards arrive from Courfeyrac and Bahorel, mostly from strip clubs in LA, but there are a few from national parks and tourist sites and one from Las Vegas that says simply, _YOU MISSED OUT._ There is an addendum to that card, written in a corner in Courfeyrac's sloping handwriting, a stark contrast to Bahorel's block lettering: _I fell in love with a girl named Krystall but she had crabs ;) miss u._

They all have a good laugh over that one. 

Feuilly grows a patchy beard and gets a job teaching at the New York Academy of Art, which floats them through most of the summer. Jehan visits often, and is never allowed to model for the students, despite his many coy offers. 

They go out to dinners and bars and have picnics in the park once the weather starts to warm up. Enjolras feels his heart has never been lighter than when he is sitting on a blanket on the grass, his hand tangled up in Grantaire's hair, while Jehan recites a poem and idly doodles flowers in ink onto Feuilly's bare arm. 

Joly and Bossuet do visit, though their trips downtown are never as regular as the promised every weekend and sometimes both of them can't make it down. But when they do make it, there's always an adventure to be had. Or at least a lot of horrible medical stories to hear. 

For five months, things are good, but certainly not perfect. 

There's a night as summer approaches, as the rain falls in big, heavy drops, that Enjolras comes home to find Grantaire sprawled out on the bed, his arm extended over the edge and covered in blood. Enjolras reels and almost passes out at the sight, his vision darkening as memories threaten to overwhelm him. 

But he takes a deep breath and manages to stumble forward. He presses a corner of a sheet against Grantaire's elbow, folds his arm up and holds it there to create pressure. The bleeding has already basically stopped, but it settles Enjolras' pounding heart to be actively doing something about it. Grantaire gives a little groan in his sleep, his face resting in an uncomfortably peaceful expression, and the tightness in Enjolras' chest lessens somewhat. There are drops of blood on the floor, along with a needle rolled half under the bed. 

Enjolras shakes his head, stroking Grantaire's hair. 

With a little moan, Grantaire opens his eyes and smiles warmly at seeing Enjolras hovering overhead. 

"Hello," he sighs, apparently unaware that his entire arm is covered in drying blood. The serious, hard look on Enjolras' face gives him pause and he looks down to his arm. "Oh." He blanches. "Sorry." 

"Yeah, you should be." With his free hand, Grantaire runs his fingers through the blood, smearing it up his arm and onto his shoulder, painting his skin with his own mess of red. He traces little patterns onto his skin until Enjolras catches his hand. 

"I was having the most beautiful dream..." Grantaire looks at Enjolras' miserable face, his eyebrows knit and lips pursed, and then looks to his arm and sheets, soaked in blood. "God, I'm a wreck, aren't I?"

Enjolras hushes him and kisses a clean patch of skin at his jaw. "It's alright... You're alright, so it's fine." It turns his stomach to look at Grantaire like this, and to look at himself, desperately clinging to another self-destructive lost cause. He knows his voice sounds tight, and his jaw is clenching no matter how he tries to relax. Breathing deep, he forces a smile and looks to Grantaire, still sprawled on the bed. Somehow, as ever, even when streaked with blood, he looks sexual and appealing-- the lines of his stomach, the shape of his leg from hip to knee-- it's infuriating. This is not an appropriate time for Grantaire to be twisting his body just so, or fluttering his eyelashes like that. "Just... please don't do this again. You scared me." 

"I'm sorry. I fell asleep."

"Grantaire, you passed out. Look at all this blood. You have to stop doing this."

"Enjolras--" 

"You have to grow up." 

Grantaire says nothing. He bites at his lower lip and glares at the sheets. 

"I thought you were giving it up," Enjolras says, bending to pick the needle up off the floor. 

"I was," Grantaire says. "I am." He looks sheepish and peels back the sheet to check his arm. The bleeding has stopped, and he wipes at the wet remnants. Enjolras watches as he cleans himself up, leaving behind brown stains. The wetness sopped up, Grantaire balls up the sheet and tosses it across the room. "It's hard."

Enjolras kisses his temples. "I know." Flopping down on the bed, he stares at the ceiling, allowing himself to wallow for a moment. His chest feels empty when he looks at Grantaire, hollow and tired. Disappointment coupled with annoyance rises in his throat and it takes a conscious effort to push it back down. 

Grantaire looks at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. Pursing his lips, he bends to kiss the corner of Enjolras' mouth, and then with a languid grace he slides off the bed to go wash the remaining blood from himself. 

The moment he's out of sight, Enjolras snaps to action, digging through drawers and feeling along shelves. He finds quite the collection-- needles and little packets of powder, lighters and things wrapped in tin foil. 

Grantaire returns, clean again like it never happened. He crawls back into bed and wriggles against Enjolras' side. His forehead is hot as it presses against Enjolras' cheek.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras. I'll be better." 

"We're getting rid of the rest of it," he says, tentatively holding in his hands the needles and powders. "I'm not coming home to find you dead from an overdose." 

"I know," Grantaire murmurs. "It won't happen." 

"You better live to a ripe old age," Enjolras says, depositing the little pile of contraband on the bedside table. He'll get rid of it in the morning, first thing, but it can wait until then.

Grantaire laughs. "Can you even imagine it?"

"What?"

"Being old." He nuzzles against Enjolras' throat. "I can't. I genuinely can't. I always figured I'd die pretty young and then... you know, it sortof became a sure thing." 

"It's not," Enjolras wraps his arms tightly around Grantaire, too tired for this conversation. He eases them back down to lie on the bed. 

"I can't imagine it, though. Can you?"

He can't, but refuses to say it. He hasn't been able to imagine a realistic, long-term future for himself since he got out of college, really. For the past year, he'd hardly been able to imagine past the end of the week. 

"Don't do this again," he says instead, and his voice is hard and cold. He's sure that the disappointment on his face is evident, so he stares resolutely at the ceiling instead of directing it towards Grantaire. Letting his frustration and anger out won't do either of them any good. 

They just sleep together that night, curled up side by side, Grantaire clinging to Enjolras' ribs.

"I need you," he whispers when he thinks Enjolras is asleep. "I can't do it without you."

And Grantaire does try, he does. He spends long, rainy nights shivering and crying and thrashing as Enjolras tries to help him through it. 

It's unbelievably difficult to watch. Enjolras grits his teeth so hard he gives himself headaches. 

Despite his attempts, he never quite kicks it. There bad nights at work, when clients grab and snicker and pinch, and Grantaire can't take it. There are nights when they fight, when Enjolras yells and shakes his head in disappointment and there are nights when Grantaire screams and spits venom and storms out in a huff. And then there are nights where he simply gives in to his cravings. He'll disappear for hours on end, sometimes overnight, and come back with fresh blood spots inside his elbows. 

Every time he slips up, Grantaire makes promises that it's the last time, the absolute last, and then keeps his word for a few weeks. Until he backslides again. Each time, watching him dissolve under pressure becomes less endurable. 

After the fifth time in as many months, when the previous time Enjolras had come home to find more drugs tucked into the back corner of the freezer was only two weeks before, it becomes unbearable. 

Enjolras snaps. 

"I can't do this!" He hisses through his teeth. His jaw is aching from days of this. "I can't watch you do this any more. You're self-destructing and I can't watch it. I can't watch another person I care about ruin themselves. It will destroy me if I stay here and watch this." 

Grantaire stands in the doorway of the bathroom, sweating and gritting his own teeth, but to keep himself from vomiting. His knuckles are white where he grasps the door frame.

"It's intolerable, Grantaire. I can't watch you kill yourself. I can't do it. No matter how much I want to help you, and be here for you, I don't think I can."

"So you're going to leave?" Grantaire says, his voice low and quiet. His eyes take on a resigned look, sad and sure. Perhaps, Enjolras thinks, Grantaire always thought this moment was coming and so is not surprised that it finally has. "You have to leave because it's what's best for you. Of course." His voice is flatly empty but his eyes are somehow on fire and wetly sad simultaneously. His jaw is set. "You really don't understand anything," he says with a sneer before turning back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Enjolras scoffs, rolling his eyes, his initial response one of frustrated annoyance. But then anger rises in him, a burning fire which he can't contain, and he's gone from slightly pissed off to _furious_ in a heartbeat.

"Don't walk away from me!" Enjolras shouts, throwing himself against the door and slapping his palm against the wood. It stings, but he hardly feels it. "Talk to me about this! It's fucking pathetic the way that you handle things. _You're_ pathetic. Things get hard so you just walk away? Fuck, Grantaire, stop running away from everything! Come out here and fucking talk to me!"

"I'm Peter Pan, remember? That's what I do." Grantaire's voice floats through the door, sounding particularly weak despite the sneer he's clearly trying to uphold. "And besides, you're the one who's running away."

Enjolras huffs out a breath filled with most of his anger and just a touch of his fear, and his shoulders slump. 

"Please let me in." 

"No thanks."

"Please." He leans his forehead against the door, listening hard. He remembers fights he used to have with August, about completely different things, but they were similar in viciousness and the last one ended with August locked in the bathroom and silence. Enjolras had walked away from that fight, and he won't do that again. "Grantaire, I'm sorry." He waits. There's no response. "I'm not going anywhere until you let me in."

Enjolras slides down against the door and sits, waiting patiently. He waits and waits, occasionally tapping the back of his head against the door, so Grantaire knows he's still there. Through the door, he occasionally hears the sounds of retching, which he tries to take some comfort in.

"One night," Enjolras tries gently after two hours have passed, "you said that you needed me. That you couldn't do it without me. I don't think you knew I was awake, but I heard you. What did you mean, Grantaire? What can't you do without me? Quit shooting up? Because having me around doesn't seem to have helped any."

There is only silence from the other side of the door. 

"Grantaire?" Then the lock turns. Enjolras gives it a moment, then pushes at the door, which creaks open just an inch. Enjolras scoots through the door and shuts it behind him. 

Grantaire is lying against the tub, his head against the cool porcelain. He looks like shit. Enjolras moves to sit beside him, putting an arm around Grantaire's shoulders. He wants to be angry, or at least stern, but when Grantaire looks this pathetic, it's a little hard. 

"You can't understand," Grantaire says; it's been a particularly bad night of fighting, and he's coming down hard from what had been an unusually spectacular high. "Without you, I'm nothing." He shivers, and Enjolras gives his arm a brief squeeze. Grantaire leans against him, his eyes closed. Enjolras brushes hair off his forehead and wipes away trailing lines of sweat. "I'm this." 

"What do you mean?" 

Grantaire laughs, a cold bitter sound that hurts. 

"Without you..." he says slowly, trying to find the right words to explain. "I'm nothing. Next to you, I'm something again, instead of nothing." 

He tries a different tactic: "Enjolras, without you... I can't do anything. I can't kick my drug habit, I can't draw, I can't sleep. I can't live without you. I die without you."

"Don't say that," Enjolras groans. "For the love of god, don't say that." 

"What? That I need you to survive?" Grantaire rolls his head onto Enjolras' shoulder, so his eyelashes brush against the column of Enjolras' throat. "That without you, the earth turns but it doesn't feel that way to me? Why not say that? It's true."

"It's a lot of pressure to put on me. It's too much pressure."

"Wow, fuck you," Grantaire sighs without genuine spite. 

"You lived before you met me."

He scoffs; "Hardly." Sliding away from Enjolras, Grantaire settles himself on the floor against the wall. 

"Before I met you," he says to the floor, "I was a tweaked out stripper who was slowly starving to death. And, granted, I'm still most of those things... but life is more complete with you in it. Without you, everything is blue, lonely blue. Everything in me is blue without you." 

"You don't have to be any of those things." It's tempting to reach out to Grantaire, or lay beside him on the floor, but Enjolras resists. "If you can just quit this junk, and save your money, get a different job... go back to school. You're smart, Grantaire, you could--"

"Shut up, Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts drearily, his voice still carrying the bitter twinge of a laugh. Enjolras frowns. "And you think I'm a child. You're the one with unrealistic dreams and expectations." Before Enjolras can even open his mouth to protest, Grantaire continues. "Look at me, Enjolras, I'm not going anywhere. At least I understand my prospects." 

And Enjolras does look at him. Grantaire is like a crumpled bird as he lies against the wall, his hip bones jutting sharply from above the waistband of his jeans. His hair is a splash of black against the cream tiles of the floor, spilling across the dingy linoleum and over his pale skin. His hands are curled into his shirt and pressed against the floor, savoring the reminder of reality provided by the cool hardness of the tiles.

"You're a pessimist."

"I'm a cynic, maybe," Grantaire says. "A realist, definitely." 

Enjolras thinks for a moment about how bright and lovely and happy the spring had been, but now that they're approaching summer, it's all turning dark. There have been too many thunderstorms already. He pulls Grantaire towards him, finding his body lighter than it should be, and Grantaire allows Enjolras to arrange him and place his head in his lap. 

After a moment, his arm creeps around Enjolras' legs to hold to his hip. He shivers and heaves, his fingers glad to have something to dig in to, and it takes a moment before he can suppress the discomfort in his chest. 

"Without you," Enjolras begins. He strokes Grantaire's hair, running his fingers through the haircut he so adores, even as it begins to grow out of it's shape. "Without you, my life would turn back to ash."

Those days when, out of anger, they don't see each other at all, Enjolras can feel his happiness fleeing from him. It's pathetic, but even twelve hours without Grantaire and he can feel himself sliding back into his isolated melancholy. The sun rises and sets, and he eats and works and drinks his coffee. Children shriek with laughter outside, sirens wail, Jehan tells him stories, Combeferre shows him videos, Feuilly takes him to galleries... but it all feels empty when Grantaire's not at his side to make jokes and kiss his ears. 

"I need you too," Enjolras says, bending awkwardly to kiss Grantaire on the head. 

"Please don't leave me," Grantaire moans pathetically against Enjolras' thigh. "I'd live without you, but it wouldn't really be living. I'd be gone." 

Enjolras pulls Grantaire up to look in his eyes and Grantaire wavers, having trouble staying upright. "Don't say that." 

"Too late, already said it." 

"God, Grantaire," Enjolras says as he pulls Grantaire into a tight embrace. They sit like that for a moment, Enjolras just holding him, until Grantaire begins to scrape his teeth along the fleshy part of Enjolras' ear. "Stop that, I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you."

"I'm done with serious," Grantaire says with a forced, tired smirk. "I'm wild and I want to kiss you. You're too good for me."

"I'm not." 

Grantaire kisses him anyway, washing away all talk of misery with a swipe of his tongue. They kiss desperately and Enjolras buries his fingers in dark hair; he feels the hard lines of a warm body against his own. This is life, and he holds tight to it, drinking in everything that Grantaire has to offer him. This is what his heart has yearned for. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he says into Grantaire's mouth as Grantaire ruts against him,snaking his body to feel every inch of Enjolras' chest while digging his fingernails into back and chest. "I'm sorry." 

"Thank you," Grantaire says through a kiss and with a roll of his hips. "I'm sorry too."

They sleep in the tub that night, cramped up but together. 

In the morning, they both are sore and miserable (Grantaire more than Enjolras), and Enjolras has a bruise from where Grantaire's knee spent the night against his ribs. But the sun is out for the first time in over a week, and Grantaire ruffles Enjolras' hair into a greasy pompadour and they laugh and crawl out of the tub to make coffee and try to return to life.

Things are okay. They look at each other and each make a conscious, silent decision that things will get better. 

They will have a good summer.

They've had a good five months, and the next five will be better than good. 

But the next five months are about the same, except the whole time, Jehan gets thin. He was never much more than a wisp to begin with, but he starts disappearing, pound by pound. 

He still smiles and pins poetry to their fridge. He goes to art openings and drinks champagne and holds Feuilly's hand, but maybe he holds it a bit more tightly and maybe he doesn't stay out as late. 

And maybe there's a night when he's too sick to go out at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if any of you have ever had blood drawn and then not applied the proper pressure to the needle prick? Well, I have, and it's sortof horrifying because it doesn't hurt at all, you just bleed a lot. And it's not enough blood loss to hurt you, and it clots up on it's own pretty quick, but one moment you're sitting there and next thing you know your arm is covered in blood. So that's what happens with Grantaire, basically.
> 
> Also, someone back me up here, bathroom floors are the best place to lay when you're feeling shitty.


	8. contact

Jehan is sick, that much is clear.

In June, he expresses a feeling of weakness. 

He drops a coffee mug and laughs it off. "These old fingers," he says with only the slightest of dark looks in his eyes, "not quite as compliant as they used to be." 

At the start of Jehan's decline, as summer is just approaching it's peak of beauty and brightness, Enjolras and Grantaire cling to each other ever tighter. 

Summer brings hot weather and damp days, humid after rains which won't seem to stop. They come together and fuck with the windows open while it rains, pressed forehead to forehead, sharing air. Their bodies are slick with sweat and rain, their hands press and dig and grasp. They press and roll and writhe together, slow and languid at first, then faster. Grantaire looks down with dark, hazy eyes and hair stuck to his forehead and around his ears. Mouths nearly touching, they watch each other, eyes falling shut only in rare moments of exertion or high pleasure.

"Enjolras, Enjolras," Grantaire breathes as he rolls his hips. Enjolras gives sweet, gasping mewls of pleasure and presses kisses to collarbones and biceps. "Hot. It's so hot." 

"You're sweet," Enjolras mumbles, sliding fingers through sweat on Grantaire's back. "Slick. Hot." Grantaire, with his arms wrapped about Enjolras' neck, gets a handful of hair and pulls. Met with an approving growl, he pulls again, exposing the strong lines of Enjolras' neck, to which he applies his clever mouth. 

"Don't stop, please don't--" With a forceful snap of his hips, Enjolras cuts off Grantaire's words. The mouth which had just recently been working it's wicked way down his throat now falls open and rests hot against his chest. "Oh god," Grantaire says with a squeak, his voice climbing higher and higher with each thrust from below. "Don't, uh, stop don't stop stop stop stop." The word turns into a chant and Enjolras follows instructions, maintaining their rhythm, a grin spreading across his face as he watches Grantaire come apart against him.

"Grantaire--" 

Enjolras bites down on shoulder, tasting salt. He tugs Grantaire close so they are chest to chest and licks the drips of sweat from Grantaire's cheeks and forehead before kissing him fiercely on the mouth.

"Deeper."

"Yes."

Grantaire falls back, one hand reaching behind for support and landing just above Enjolras' knee. The other hand trails at Enjolras' jaw then slides down to dig in at his collarbone. His fingernails cut into the thin skin there, and Enjolras grits his teeth. The change of angle is intense, and nearly too much. Grantaire tightens around him and bucks his hips. Enjolras groans, unable to keep himself from staring at Grantaire's hipbones and thin stomach. 

"God, you're beautiful."

"No, shut up," Grantaire replies through his teeth. "You're the beautiful one."

"Grantaire." 

"Harder." The word comes with a physical encouragement, a determined jerk of his hips which pulls Enjolras apart. " _Harder._ "

"Yes, yes, oh god, Grantaire, please..."

They devolve into whines and moans and murmured pleadings. 

It's good in the summer, and they dig bruises into each others arms and backs and hips. They leave marks and drink affection from each others mouths and bodies. 

"I love you," Grantaire whispers one night while their bodies are plastered together. "Oh god, do I love you. I need you I love you I can't without you, I--" 

He only gets so far in his devoted ramblings before Enjolras shuts him up with tongue and fingers. 

They sleep together as a tangle of limbs, mouths pressed to shoulders and the back of necks, arms wrapped around chests and stomachs and draped along thighs. They are inseparable and they are as happy as they can be. 

They fuck against the counters in the kitchen and they make love in the bed, pressing together with an urgency that neither can bring themselves to address, though it becomes ever more desperate as the summer heat increases. 

By late July, it's clear that Jehan is wasting away. He's thin and getting thinner, but more disturbing is that he's not quite as chipper as usual. His melancholy side has taken over, and while he still composes poetry, it has turned dark and frightful. Feuilly is clearly worried, but won't talk to anyone and no one is willing to press him on it. Joly is especially concerned, and his visits on weekends are characterized by his furrowed brow and nervously bitten lips. 

"You've been to a doctor, of course?" he asks of Jehan late one night, after they all have finished the last three bottles of wine in the apartment. 

Jehan looks at him incredulously and then bursts into a warm smile. "Of course." 

Joly puts his hand to Jehan's thin wrist. "Recently?" 

"Joly, sweet thing, don't worry so much."

Jehan is slipping away and no one seems to be able to talk about it. 

Least of all Jehan.

Grantaire takes on more shifts at work while Enjolras takes on a brief stint as a speech writer for a local politician who has a promising career. He ends up wasting some of his finest rhetoric on a candidate whose poll numbers are plummeting. It's depressing. Making their schedules align becomes more and more difficult, and when they find time to be together they're both exhausted and sick of humanity and ready to collapse. 

Covered in bruises and glitter that won't seem to come off, Grantaire takes baths as hot as his poor old water heater can manage in an attempt to soothe this aching muscles. Sometimes Enjolras joins him in the water, but more often he merely sits on the floor in the bathroom. They simply share each others company, quiet and tired, steam swirling around them. Grantaire extends fingers towards him and occasionally Enjolras will meet him, hooking their pinkies.

"I love you," Grantaire sighs sleepily, propped up in the tub. "I do."

More than once Enjolras pulls a mostly asleep Grantaire out of the water and takes him to bed. He presses kisses to his forehead and each new bruise.

They sleep with hands entwined and bodies close. Their love making becomes less frequent and when they come together, they are slow and lazy-- mouths trail against each other loosely, bodies press and slide without rush. It's too exhausting to work the fire into a frenzy, and neither have the energy for it. This is enough-- to be a pair, body to body, hands held and mouths wetly meeting. 

They have little to say to each other.

Feuilly declines to teach summer courses at the academy so he can stay with Jehan, who chides him for it constantly. 

"Go back to work, dear," he says with a flippant wave of his hand. "I'm fine, and you're being a goose." 

"I'm not," Feuilly says with a seriousness that has become familiar in all of them. "I need to be here. I won't teach in the fall either, if it comes to that." 

"I love you," Jehan says, pulling Feuilly in for a kiss. "I love you and you're sweet, but I don't want you lose your job over me."

"I don't mind," Feuilly sighs through the kiss. "I love you too."

"I love you," Jehan says the words with relish and pleasure, loving nothing more than love and it's expression. But his words are tinged with a heaviness which seems to be dragging him down. 

Watching from across the room, Enjolras reaches to take Grantaire's hand, but misses and catches wrist instead. 

It's illness, and it's pulling them all down, some quicker than others. 

And then in August something snaps completely. Grantaire has another break in his sobriety, and Enjolras finds that he doesn't even have the energy to be angry. They stop communicating, stop talking about anything of importance, and the sex gets bad. Awkward, forced, unhappy. They bump noses and crack knees together. Condoms slip and bodies misalign and frustrations come all too easily. 

They struggle. 

Enjolras grunts and groans while Grantaire lays still and moans. His fingers trace the lines of Enjolras' biceps and up his neck, his mouth teases at nipples and licks at the soft spot behind Enjolras' ear. But nothing works quite like it should. Nothing makes sense like it did just two months before.

They don't fit together properly anymore, it seems, though for a while they try.

"It was bad for me," Grantaire says to the ceiling as he lays at Enjolras' side on the bed. They are coated in a sticky, cooling layer of sweat which is starting to feel disgusting. Their hands are touching, but that is all. It's almost too humid to breathe. "Was it bad for you?"

There's no need for Enjolras to say anything. They both know the answer. 

Soon enough, they stop trying. 

And then their fights, which never disappeared completely, flare up into an uncontrollable forest fire which scorches the landscape. All the passion they had once poured into affection for each other, into heated nights and afternoons, freezes into sharp anger and bitterness. September arrives with a series of loud shouts and quiet accusations. They fight viciously and hurl cruelties at each other, insults and insinuations designed to cut to the core.

"I knew you would never clean up. It was a waste of time to even think you could. Everything with you is a waste of time."

"From the first, I knew it, and I should have listened to my instincts. I knew you were ice cold. Frigid. No wonder you're alone so much. You're a tin man with no heart."

"Wrong story. Shouldn't you be calling me a pirate?"

"I don't love you. I don't know why I ever thought I did. It was stupid to think I could love someone so incapable of love as you are."

"You don't know anything about love."

They fight often enough, and with enough biting fury, that Enjolras moves himself back downstairs. He sleeps in Combeferre's bed (as his own remains occupied) and says nothing about Grantaire. Combeferre doesn't ask either, though questions and concerns gnaw at him. He watches Enjolras sleep, seeing once again an unhappiness that had been absent for so long. 

Through September, Jehan mainly spends his time seeing doctors or laying on the couch in the loft. He sleeps and reads and talks about _consumption_ and how all the romantic poets died. His fascination is nothing short of morbid, and books scattered on the coffee table express his interest. Keats, who died far too young. Byron, who died attempting to fight for a cause which had nothing to do with him. Baudelaire, who succumbed to his vices. Shelley, who died for nothing at all. 

Grantaire takes to sneaking in to visit, always through the window and always when Enjolras isn't home. Jehan is always immensely pleased to see him, and they drink tea spiked with brandy while chatting for hours on end. Usually Grantaire disappears back upstairs before Enjolras arrives, and in this way they avoid each other successfully for two weeks. 

But then there is a day when Enjolras comes home for lunch to find Grantaire sitting at Jehan's side, settled on the floor by the couch. They had been mid-conversation, but the apartment hushes to silence when Enjolras steps through the door. 

Upon seeing each other, they both startle and then force a casualness which is obviously false. Things are awkward between them, to say the least. 

"Oh," Enjolras says, moving with focus towards the kitchen. "Hi."

"Hi." Grantaire responds. The temperature in the room might as well have dropped ten degrees, it's gotten so cold. There's a tension that isn't entirely anger or discomfort. They both are tempted to ask about each others well being, _How are you? What are you up to? Do you miss me like I miss you? Are you still as angry as I am?_ The questions hover in the air but remain unspoken.

Jehan, caught in the middle of all this awkwardness, shifts on the couch, sitting up to get a better look at Enjolras. 

"Did you know," Grantaire says as coolly as he can to Jehan, drawing attention back to himself, "they brought Mary Shelley Percy's heart after he drowned at sea? They brought it to her in a little box." 

He gestures to the size he thinks a heart box would be and glances at Enjolras, who is staring resolutely at the inside of the fridge, his jaw set firmly. Grantaire fumbles with a mug on the coffee table; it's empty, but it's something to do with his nervous hands.

"I did know that," Jehan says with a little smile. If Feuilly were here, Grantaire is sure they would be sharing a sweet little glance, which turns his stomach to think about. He misses sweet little glances. Jehan probably finds the idea of giving Feuilly his literal heart romantic. Enjolras retreats to his bedroom without further look or word in Grantaire's direction, and shuts the door behind him.

Jehan offers a hand in support, which Grantaire takes. "Don't worry," he says quietly. "He'll come around."

"It's my fault too," Grantaire says, laying his head on the couch. "It's over." 

"We'll see."

"No, Jehan." Grantaire peeks up through his hair. "It's over. I know it." 

Jehan pats the back of his hand, smiling sadly. It's not long before Grantaire sneaks back out the window. 

Combeferre calls Courfeyrac and Bahorel as October rolls around, just as things start to look bad. They arrive just in time to be present for the worst of it. The pair of them look unbelievably vibrant when they come busting into the apartment. They carry with them a boisterous energy which revives the ashen group before them. Courfeyrac is bright and grinning, and even Enjolras would admit that he looks tan, or maybe it's just the glow of health. Excitement fills the room and there are tight embraces to be had all around. The comparison between broad, healthy, tan Bahorel and thin, pale, delicately sad Jehan is sharp. They hug hello and Bahorel holds on for a touch too long. 

"Thank you, but that's enough, Bahorel," Jehan groans. "You're crushing me."

Bahorel retreats with an earnest apology that turns into a fit of laughter. His smile crinkles his eyes, breaking his California tan. 

"Where's Grantaire?" He asks, looking around. 

"Probably upstairs," Combeferre says quietly, pulling Bahorel aside to explain the situation. 

Courfeyrac flops onto the couch beside Feuilly. "I like this," he says while tugging at Feuilly's beard. "I didn't believe it when Combeferre told me over the phone, but it's not bad at all." 

Bahorel sneaks out the front door to go find Grantaire while Enjolras calls Bossuet and Joly, who arrive within the hour. 

With all of them together again, Enjolras finds it easy to ignore Grantaire, who thankfully mostly keeps himself quietly in the shadows anyway. They drink like no one is dying, laughing and teasing. 

It's like Christmas again. 

But in the morning, they awake to Jehan vomiting in the bathroom while Feuilly gently rubs his back, and the illusion of happiness and health dissolves immediately. 

Joly tries to insist that they take Jehan up to the hospital uptown where he works, but Jehan dismisses such a suggestion with a firm look.

"No, no," he says with a dreamy air. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks tired, so tired. "Take me to Bellevue. Let me die among the ghosts of the old city." 

It's a statement that sends everyone into various states of discomfort, from Feuilly whose face falls and who wraps his arms around Jehan's thin shoulders, to Courfeyrac who turns sharply on his heel and strides off to the kitchen to force himself into busyness making coffee.

So they take him to Bellevue. 

They filter in and out in rotation, keeping Jehan company. Feuilly leaves only to sleep and when everyone else forces him out to get fresh air and see the sun, and then stops leaving even then. He lays on the hospital bed with Jehan, an arm always around his shoulder. 

"I love you, but it feels excessive," Jehan whispers. "I'm sorry about this."

Feuilly shushes him and feeds him ice chips and tiny cupcakes (which Bossuet found in a bakery one day, and now keeps constantly on hand). He draws too, copying out every expression of Jehan's he can, before they're gone.

Summer has died away, leaving in it's stead dry, cooling air and brown leaves in the parks which crunch underfoot. 

Late in October, on the first really chilly day, Feuilly returns to the apartment. Enjolras is with him, looking crestfallen and more than a little haunted. Feuilly looks at first glance as stoic as he's looked for the past month, strong and brave as ever.

"Feuilly! Pleasant surprise." Joly waves at him with just a glance and gestures to the spread of Chinese food on the kitchen counter. "Just in time for dinner." 

Grantaire is the first to do a head count and realize there are eight of them in the apartment-- Feuilly and Enjolras at the door, Joly and Bahorel in the kitchen, Combeferre by the window, Courfeyrac, Bossuet and himself sitting on the couch. Eight. No one is with Jehan.

"Is everything alright?" He says, rising to his feet. 

"It's over," Feuilly says quietly. Enjolras' hand twitches like he's going to reach out and touch Feuilly's shoulder, but he doesn't. 

"What?" Bossuet says, also standing. 

"What's happened?" Combeferre comes over from the window. 

"It's over," Feuilly repeats, looking to each of them for understanding. 

"Oh god," Grantaire stumbles back as everyone else surges forwards. Hands reach to touch and comfort, and Feuilly crumbles into their care, held in the arms of his friends. 

Enjolras stands outside the mass of mumbling, entangled bodies, as does Grantaire. They look to each other. Grantaire is crying silently, his hands covering his mouth. With a tilt of his head, he seems to beg for Enjolras back in his arms, for Enjolras to come to him and hold him and be sweet once more. To forgive everything. Enjolras has tracks still visible on his cheeks from tears which no one saw fall, but his jaw is set again, tight and strong and withheld. 

He remains lingering above the group, even as Grantaire kneels to join them. 

Enjolras is done with his crying. 

It's over.


	9. goodbye love

The funeral is on Halloween, and it's cold out. 

It's short, quiet ceremony and then they put Jehan in the ground and it's over. 

Feuilly lingers at the grave site, silent and strong, his tears long since stopped. He crouches by the fresh earth, covered in the flowers of eight extravagant bouquets. 

A few feet away, the rest of them stand as a puddle of black, close together and still. 

They're all miserable, in their own way; losing Jehan is hard enough, but watching Feuilly say his goodbyes is nothing short of agonizing for everyone. Enjolras and Grantaire stand on opposite ends of the group, avoiding each other. Grantaire's shock of dark hair always manages to catch Enjolras' eye, no matter how far apart they stand. Wearing black jeans and boots, wrapped in a long black coat and a thick scarf, Grantaire's pale skin pops and he looks something like a ghoul. Enjolras sees dark hair and sad eyes and can't help but remember running his fingers through that hair, making those eyes smile. He's miserable. Without Grantaire, even though he's still angry and tired about so much and knows their split was for the best, he's deeply unhappy. It's an unhappiness that he's no longer used to. He's out of practice, and feeling the sharp ache of misery again is turning him cold in defense. 

Finally, Feuilly presses a kiss to his fingers, presses his fingers to the ground, and stands. 

The group scatters as he turns around, starting to pick their way through the gravestones and out of the cemetery. 

Grantaire nearly has to jog to catch up to Enjolras, but once he does they fall into step together easily. 

"I heard you sold your guitar to buy a train ticket. Is it true?" He asks, tugging his coat tightly around himself. It's worn thin and Enjolras thinks it seems a bit too thin for the weather, and has to remind himself that he doesn't care.

"It's true. And I sold a lot more than my guitar. Bought a suit too." He gestures down to the slick bit of black that fits him to a tee. 

Grantaire looks him up and down, appreciation glinting in his eyes; "Very nice." 

"I'm going to DC."

"Lobbying?" 

"Yeah. A connection finally paid off." Enjolras still hasn't looked at him directly, instead looking into the distance, searching for the gates out of the cemetery. The landscape all looks the same, gravestones and mounds of dirt everywhere he turns.

"That's great." 

"You don't have to pretend to be happy for me." 

Grantaire rolls his eyes; "Yeah, God forbid." 

They walk in silence for a moment. "Are you seeing anyone new?" Enjolras finally asks, slowly and regretting every word. They never officially broke up, but it's been clear for a while now that they aren't together anymore. Enjolras finds himself dreading the answer.

But the only answer he gets is a noncommittal roll of Grantaire's shoulders. 

"Fine, don't tell me," he bites, abruptly remembering everything he finds so frustrating about Grantaire. "I don't care who you're fucking anyway." 

Grantaire stops walking, shocked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Courfeyrac is the first to catch up. He takes one look at Grantaire's face and runs to catch Enjolras' arm. "Hey, Enjolras," he says gently but firmly. "Why don't you cut him some slack?" 

"You don't even _know_ him!" drawls Enjolras, his voice taking on the bitter imitation of a laugh. He turns on Courfeyrac and gives him a shove to the chest. "You spent a week here at Christmas, and you hardly spoke to him. You don't know him and you didn't know us together, so why don't you just mind your own fucking business?" 

"Enjolras, god," Courfeyrac says as he retreats, raising his hands in apology. "I was just saying--"

"Just saying what? That I should just forgive him for everything? For trying to drag me down with him?" Enjolras feels as cold and cruel as he has ever been, and the words far too easily. 

"That's not what he's--"

"That I should just take him back and ignore how fucked up and destructive he is? I don't think so." 

The rest of the group, except Feuilly, has caught up with them by now and are watching with a terrified interest. Combeferre looks like he wants to say something, to try and diffuse the situation, but before he can, Grantaire chimes in.

"Like you're not fucked up too. Please, you're so damaged and you can't even see it."

"That's not true." Enjolras knows he's damaged, and to be told he's blind to his own hurts and baggage is insulting. 

"Yes, it is. That's why you won't commit. Why you never talked about anything serious, your feelings, your thoughts. It was always about me and how fucked up I was. Which is a lot of fucking guilt to lay on a person, Enjolras, in case you didn't know," he sneers bitterly, his mouth twisting in an ugly way. "You spent our entire relationship trying to _save me_ , because you couldn't save your last boyfriend."

Enjolras says nothing.

"Which is pretty fucked up, actually. You're afraid." Grantaire is pushing buttons, deliberately trying to get Enjolras to snap. "You're afraid of committing because there's a risk something awful will happen again. You're afraid of believing in something too strongly, of caring too much, in case you get hurt again. And in the meantime, by the end, it was like I didn't even exist to you! Because fuck what anyone else needs, as long as you're safe and alone, right?" 

Enjolras takes a step forward, his body buzzing with anger that's just itching to get out. He's never been in a fist fight, but it's never too late for the first time. Yeah, he thinks, punching Grantaire would feel really good right now. 

"Stop it, Grantaire," he says. "You're being petty."

"Fuck you! You ran away! You're still running. Running all the way to DC." 

But getting into a fight in a cemetery isn't appropriate and Enjolras wouldn't do that Feuilly, who he can see is almost to the point of joining them. 

"Grantaire, stop," he says, forcing himself to be cool again. No one can rile him up like Grantaire, which is infuriating all on it's own. "We had a good run, but it's over. Move on. And I'm not running away," he adds, "I'm getting out."

He turns decisively to walk away. Grantaire barks out a laugh.

"I can't believe you. You gave me so much shit about quitting, and then you're just going to walk away from this?"

Enjolras shrugs, glancing out over the hills of the cemetery. The wind blows and cuts through his jacket. He and Grantaire shiver in unison. 

"You're going to walk away from all of us?" Grantaire spreads his arms in gesture and Enjolras catches a glimpse of a collarbone, far more pronounced than he remembers. "You're such a haughty piece of shit," Grantaire hisses low and furious. "I tried so hard and gave so much and--"

"Gave to who, Grantaire? Your dealer?" Enjolras tosses the words over his shoulder, hoping they cut upon impact.

Grantaire stills, his wildness becoming sharp and keen. He speaks in a low, even tone, staring hard at Enjolras' back. "You think you're too good for this. For me." At this, Enjolras wheels on him, remembering the hundreds of times Grantaire had told him just that-- _You're too good for me_ \-- and he looks now at Grantaire's serious, fierce, sober eyes and sees no trace of irony. 

"Yeah," Enjolras says, turning away again, forcing nonchalance once again. It's a facade that's getting harder and harder to put up. "I'm _too good for you_."

He starts to walk off, all too aware of how awkward it is behind his back, with Grantaire fuming at him and everyone else waiting to see what will happen, all of them standing on the thin of ice of who will speak first. 

Luckily for them, Grantaire pipes up before any of them can, his anger not yet sated. 

"Fuck you," he growls, and the wind carries his voice right to Enjolras' ear. "Fuck. You. I would be happy to die for a taste of what Jehan had. Someone who loved him, someone to _live_ for. Someone who stuck through the absolute worst of it. That's love that comes once in a lifetime. You're an ungrateful bastard, Enjolras."

Enjolras keeps walking, but deigns to toss over his shoulder, "You don't know what you're talking about. You're a brat and you won't share love until you can get past all your own drama and bullshit." 

"Guys," Combeferre says delicately, jogging forward to try and break the tension. That, and Feuilly is getting ever closer. "Don't fight. Come on, not today." 

Enjolras stops, turns around, and glares coldly down on all of them. Bahorel moves to put an arm around Grantaire's shoulders, but his attempt at comfort is immediately thrown off. Grantaire is staring hard at Enjolras, his body tightly strung. 

"Let's just go home and get drunk in Jehan's honor, okay? And not say anything we'll regret." 

His words are summarily ignored. Enjolras strides decisively down the hill, stopping only when he's within arms reach of Grantaire. 

"You don't even know what love is," he says, calm and cold. "I stuck with you through ten months of withdrawals and drugs and your fucked up mood swings. I stuck through all that. So don't fucking lecture me about love." 

"Well," Grantaire retorts, "maybe if you ever fucking _said_ it, that would mean something. Maybe if you didn't act like it was such a burden to be with me."

Enjolras grits his teeth. He doesn't say that it _was_ a burden to be with him, that it was difficult and stressful and exhausting. For a while it was worth the effort, and then it wasn't anymore. "That's it," he says instead, utterly finished. "Goodbye."

As he strides up the hill, Grantaire says into the air, not quite to him, but certainly, purposefully, loud enough that he'll hear, "If this is what you're like when things get hard, I can see why he killed himself." 

It's the cruelest thing Grantaire has ever said; it eclipses all their fights, all the nasty words thrown between them, all the horrible things they have ever said to hurt each other. This is the worst. 

"Grantaire..." Joly murmurs.

Enjolras turns to look one last time at Grantaire and tries to memorize forever how completely he _hates_ that face in this moment. He wants to burn out all the memories of warm laughter in the dim light of candles, of wide, loving eyes. Of a body firm under his hands and a mouth mumbling against his chest, "I love you." _No_ , he tells himself. _Remember this instead. Remember this moment._

Feuilly has finally arrived, joining the back of the group near Bossuet and Joly. He shakes his head sadly. 

Grantaire doesn't budge, doesn't apologize, so Enjolras takes his hatred and leaves. He shoves his fists into his pockets as his fingernails dig painful grooves into his palms. It doesn't matter that they're going to the same place, that in an hour they'll be ten feet apart, separated by a ceiling and floor. Enjolras needs to get away and never see Grantaire again.

A buzz passes through the group; Combeferre is the one who ends up chasing after him. Enjolras doesn't stop walking until Combeferre grabs him by the arm and forcibly stops him. 

"Enjolras! Hold up!" He doesn't let go of Enjolras' bicep. "He didn't mean it, Enjolras. He's just upset and he's lashing out. We're all upset."

"No," Enjolras says. "He meant it. How could he?"

"Don't be like that," say Combeferre, idly pushing his glasses up his nose. 

"How could we lose Jehan?"

"Maybe," Combeferre says tentatively, "you should take this as a sign. Don't leave all of us. Try and fix things with Grantaire. That's what Jehan would want; to make his death mean something."

Enjolras scoffs; "His death means nothing."

"What's wrong with you? You have so much to care about right here." The words come harshly, the product of weeks of pent up frustration and concern. "You've got me and Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are back for good, I think--" Enjolras doesn't look convinced. "You've got Grantaire." 

"Please," sneers Enjolras, turning away towards the gates. 

"What's going on here, Enjolras?" Combeferre says gently. With a little gesture of his hand he starts them walking again. "Are you really mad at him? Or are you scared?" 

"Scared?" Enjolras echoes with disbelief. 

"He's gotten really thin since you two split. He's sick. I think you're scared you'll have to watch him die." 

"He has gotten thin," Enjolras says, looking over his shoulder. After a moment, he admits, "you're right. I don't want that." 

"Then why not stay? You're good for him and you know it. And he's good for you," Combeferre touches his arm gently. "Stay and help him."

"No," Enjolras says, firm as ever, but his heart is wavering. "I've got to go. I can make a difference in DC, and I have to try. I can get things done there."

Combeferre bites his lip. "Fine," he says. "I mean, what do I know, right?" 

"Right." 

Grantaire is still standing at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by Enjolras' friends. He watches Combeferre and Enjolras talk and then turns his back to them with a frustrated huff. 

"I'd hoped this wouldn't happen today," Feuilly says vaguely in Bossuet's direction. He doesn't sound angry, merely sad. "I guess I should have known better." 

Combeferre returns to the group, shrugging apologetically. Enjolras has headed off on his own. 

"I'm sorry, Feuilly," says Grantaire before pushing through the bodies surrounding him to walk off on his own. The set of his shoulders says he'll find his own way home. Bahorel takes a few steps to follow him, but Joly catches him by the sleeve and shakes his head. 

"I think everyone needs some space right now," he says, and Bahorel nods but his body thrums with the desire to run after Grantaire, and if not for Joly's hand still on his arm, he probably would anyway. Grantaire's slim little body stumbles halfway up the hill and they hear his miserable curses even from a distance.

 

The night passes in near silence, and the next day, Enjolras is packing to leave, putting the last of his shirts and trousers into his one suitcase. His favorite books line the bottom of the case, padded by faded jeans and thin t-shirts. Feuilly is sitting on the couch, staring off into the middle distance. He shaved off his beard immediately following the funeral, and he runs his hand along his smooth jaw over and over. 

Enjolras is taking a break to have some coffee and a bagel when there's a knocking on the window. 

For a moment, Enjolras' heart leaps happily into his throat. He turns a little too fast and spills hot coffee onto his hand. 

His heart was right-- it's Grantaire. He's wearing a too big black hoodie and the same bright blue jeans as the first night they met; Enjolras would recognize them anywhere. Grantaire gives a weak flicker of a smile and gestures to the window. 

It's Feuilly who waves permission to come in, and with permission granted, Grantaire slowly pushes up the window and slides himself inside. He lingers by the windowsill, looking at the floor instead of at Enjolras. Feuilly excuses himself to the bedroom. 

"I know you don't want to see me, but I just... came to say goodbye." 

"Well, goodbye then," Enjolras responds flatly and quickly. 

"Enjolras, listen..." He slinks across the flat, coming to stand near Enjolras in the kitchen. "I'm sorry. And I hope you'll be happy in DC."

He looks at Enjolras with wet eyes. There's so much more he wants to say, but bites his tongue. There are dark smudges under his eyes and his lips are chapped as ever. He tugs the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands and chews on his lips. Enjolras wonders despite himself how many new bruises and blood spots he's hiding under those sleeves. There's a crack just near the corner of his mouth, on his lower lip, and Grantaire flicks out his tongue to swipe up the little line of blood. 

"That's all," Grantaire says quietly. "That's all I wanted to say." 

Enjolras stares hard at him, his hands starting to cramp from how tightly he's holding onto his coffee mug. 

"Just that." Grantaire takes one tentative step closer. "Just goodbye." With another step, he's nearly in Enjolras' personal space, and Enjolras can feel the heat coming off his body. He's still staring at the counter top while Enjolras stares at his face. Finally he looks up and there's fear in his eyes. 

"Goodbye, love." He leans in quickly, too quickly for Enjolras to stop him, and presses a brief, warm, gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. His lips linger for the length of a heartbeat; his hand graces over Enjolras' wrist and then is gone. 

Enjolras feels his heart clench in his chest. 

Before he can get over his shock, Grantaire has fled back to the window. 

"Goodbye, love," he says again in a voice that is infinitely sad. Enjolras can almost pick out the knobs of his spine through his sweatshirt. "And I did love you, Wendy-bird. I loved you so much. And I _am_ sorry." His voice cracks at the end and Enjolras is tempted to run to him and pull him back, hold Grantaire tight and never let him go. And then he remembers that moment in the cemetery, the hard, biting look on Grantaire's face, remembers to remember his hate and his anger, and he doesn't move. 

Grantaire looks back once and then he's gone, a flash of blue as he disappears up the fire escape. 

After staring at the empty window for a moment, Enjolras returns to his coffee and bagel. He remains stubbornly and resolutely in the kitchen, gritting his teeth against chasing after Grantaire. Let them hate each other and never see each other again. Let Grantaire die in that grungy apartment of his. 

Enjolras bites at the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. 

It's quiet in the apartment for about a minute as Enjolras pours more sugar than he usually allows himself into his coffee. Finally, Feuilly emerges from the bedroom, apparently having deemed it safe.

They stand together for a while, Enjolras sipping from his mug and Feuilly leaning over the counter and staring out the window. 

"I can't believe you're going," he says, putting his chin in his hands. He sighs. "I can't believe he's gone."

"Feuilly, I'm so sorry--" 

"I keep expecting him to walk through the door, you know?" 

If anyone knows, it's Enjolras. He nods. 

"It's just..." Feuilly turns, leaning his hip against the counter. "Bahorel and Courfeyrac just came back... and now you're leaving, and Jehan is gone... It feels like our little family is falling apart." 

"I know..." Enjolras glances at the clock in the oven. It's nearly time to get going. "I have to go." 

"You'll call?" 

"Of course." Enjolras wanders off to get his coat and his bags, his entire life packed into a suitcase and a backpack. "You'll keep my room in good shape?" 

"It's not really yours anymore." 

Enjolras shrugs; "I paid for that bed."

"You might not want it back," Feuilly says with a wry smile and they laugh for the first time in weeks. 

He ends up waiting around for the rest of his friends to turn back up before he leaves. There are hugs and promises made, and then Enjolras is out the door. Joly and Bossuet walk with him to the subway, and ride with him part of the way. 

"Travel safe," Bossuet warns as they part ways-- Enjolras getting off to catch a different train, Joly and Bossuet continuing uptown. "Remember to always double check the time tables. They get complicated." 

As the train pulls out of the station, Enjolras waves at the receding figures of his friends. Joly waves back until they disappear into the tunnel. 

Enjolras turns towards the stairs, already feeling the cool air from above ground. 

"I hate the fall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh in case anyone was wondering-- the idea is that Enjolras makes money as a freelance speech writer and political consultant when he's not busy being sad or planning protests or yelling on street corners. So honestly he'd probably do pretty well for himself in DC, given the right intro position. This is a detail doesn't matter in this chapter, but, you know, just an fyi for 'ya.


	10. what you own

DC treats him pretty well, all things considered.

His first job leads to contacts who point him in the direction of even better positions, in lobbying firms and offices around town. The work is hard and demanding, but he's capable and determined, and his passion and eloquence impress the right people. 

He finds a basement apartment just off Dupont Circle and for the first time in his life, he lives completely alone. His upstairs neighbors are a pair of young women who giggle every time they see him. They invite him up for drinks eventually, for a Thanksgiving party that's a week early, and for a moment, as he looks up at their sweet, bright faces, he thinks he might accept. What would be the harm in a few new friends? He hasn't been socializing lately, and feels a little out of practice. One of the girls, a redhead with braids in her hair, says, "We have some decent vegetarian stuffing too. You look like a vegetarian." 

"Oh," Enjolras is taken aback. "Do I?"

"A bit," says the other girl, an auburn haired slip of a thing who would be stunningly beautiful if her nose were a bit smaller. "And you look like you haven't eaten all day. So, coming up?"

Enjolras bites his lip and considers hard.

"No," he finally says, shrugging his shoulders and turning to pick his way down the stairs to his quiet apartment. "Thanks, but I can't."

"Other plans?" the redhead chirps after him.

"Uh, yes," he lies. 

"Next time!" the redhead calls after him, giggling. 

He hears chairs scraping around upstairs through the rest of the night.

It's not that he avoids them purposefully after that, but he just happens to not meet them at the gate as often as he maybe did when he first moved in.

He rides the metro around town and gets a bike share subscription for nice days. It turns out to be cheaper than the metro, and there's something extremely satisfying about biking around town in his suit, even as the weather turns colder. He debates in coffee shops and cafes with congressional aides, who then shake his hand and promise to introduce him to the powerful men they work for. 

Sometimes they actually do, and on those occasions Enjolras spends afternoons in the offices of men who are supposed to be capable of enacting serious change. Most of them listen to him carefully, and jot down a few notes and his phone number, and say _There are people who should hear you speak, young man. I'll be in touch._ It all sounds promising, but promising isn't really good enough. Promising leads to disappointing all too soon, and Enjolras starts to think the change he wants will always be slightly out of reach. It's all a lot of empty promises and lazy efforts. A few of the powerful men he meets with hire him to write speeches and clarify language on bills, and despite his frustrations, for the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel like his skills are being entirely wasted. 

It's something, something to edge him closer to his goals and dreams and hopes for the world, and that's better than nothing.

Though he starts outlining some really radical petitions in his free time, and maybe he starts thinking about the best way to tear down the entire broken political system and replace it with something more honest and direct. 

Those are notes he keeps to himself. 

Taking advantage of the free museums, he spends many of his mornings among the dinosaurs or the art. Winter isn't exactly tourist season, and so the museums are generally quiet and peaceful. The west wing of the National Gallery has some French pieces which speak to him, views of rivers and peasants. He wanders through the exhibit on the American Maritime experience and spends far too much time in the exhibit on American wars after he starts a conversation with one of the staff. He buys postcards to send to New York and spends lunches in the congressional greenhouses, enjoying the humidity of the place.

The work he's doing is good and more satisfying than not, and it pays him better than any of the work he was doing in New York. The life he's living is good and relatively satisfying.

After a month he buys a couch and a guitar. 

By all accounts, Enjolras should be happy.

He looks around his little apartment, finally furnished and decorated after weeks of sleeping on the floor and looking at blank walls, and thinks he should be happy. 

When he thinks about it, he feels... not bad, that's for sure. Content, maybe.

Combeferre sends him postcards and letters in return, a constant stream of incoming information. Feuilly has gone back to work at the academy, Bahorel has picked up a job at a private detective agency-- which sounds perfect for him and Enjolras can't help but laugh at the idea of Bahorel as an investigator, creeping around corners and trying to look inconspicuous while probably still wearing those horrible cardigans he insists on. Courfeyrac is, Combeferre reports, is learning to play the accordion and " _acting_ ", but they have yet to see a finished production or hear any details. 

_But,_ Combeferre writes, _He seems happy, which is what matters, of course._

He ends most of his letters with the same phrase, again and again: _We're happy, but we'd be happier if you were here._

Sometimes they even call each other, but Enjolras finds it sad to hear Combeferre's voice from so far away. Courfeyrac, however, loves to chat on the phone, and sometimes just leaves long, sprawling voicemails for Enjolras to listen to at his own convenience. 

Feuilly sends him drawings of the city-- towering buildings, stretched bridges, boardwalks and parks, bustling crowds and empty subway stations-- and unfinished sketches of their friends. There is one of Bossuet asleep with his head on Combeferre's lap that Enjolras hangs in his apartment. 

There is no mention of Grantaire.

Enjolras writes postcard after postcard to his friends, and a few to Grantaire which never leave the top of his dresser. He even writes to his mother. 

The letter he receives in return from her is exactly what he'd expected: 

_Darling,_ it says, _Lovely to hear from you. I don't think I understand your cards. What do you mean you've moved to DC? Where are your friends? Why don't you come home? We're worried about you. Your father wouldn't say so but he's worried. Do you need money? You always need money, don't you? Love, Mom_

Enclosed is a check for two hundred dollars, which he immediately tears up.

Autumn in DC is cool, and it gets colder; Enjolras invests in a wool coat. He does not write his mother again. It is winter again before he knows it. 

And he's _not_ happy, not really, despite the good work he's doing, despite the little life he's cobbled together for himself. 

He collapses onto his couch after a long day on the hill and stares into space. Sometimes he plucks at his guitar, but his efforts are barely even half-hearted. 

It all feels empty. He feels empty.

And worst of all, he sees Grantaire _everywhere_.

There's a staffer who holds his cigarettes the same way, a barista with the same shade of dark blue eyes. A tourist with the same haircut, someone on the far train platform with the same laugh. There are paintings in the National Gallery that remind him of Grantaire's style, sketches of handsome young men and leisurely groups of friends. There are wine bars that smell like him. 

Once upon a time, Enjolras dreamt of anonymous hands and mouths. Then he met August, and he dreamt of sharp cheekbones and elbows, of a harsh laugh and pinching fingers. He dreamt of August for nearly a year after he died, and woke up in a cold bed and with tears on his cheeks. 

But now all he dreams of is Grantaire, of his charming smile and the swing of his hips, of his dirty apartment and too tight jeans. He dreams of Grantaire's furrowed forehead and the way sweat would gather in the hollows of his collarbones. He dreams of how his hair fell in clumps of curls onto the kitchen floor the day that Jehan cut it. He dreams of kissing his lips and eyebrows and ears. He dreams in details; images of a quirked lip or a bruised hipbone linger with him through his waking hours. Enjolras wakes up from dreams of being held and praised and admired, and in those few moments before he realizes it was a dream, then he feels happy. 

But soon enough it becomes clear where he is, and that's he alone, and the happiness fades back into mere contentedness. 

Sometimes he dreams of both of them, of August and Grantaire in sharp juxtaposition. August is always taunting him and tempting him, inviting him with a smirk. Grantaire never does more than offer a hand. 

There is a guy he keeps bumping into at the Whole Foods just off 14th st. who looks exactly like Grantaire from behind, and every time Enjolras spots him, his heart skips. The guy, whose face isn't at all like Grantaire's-- he just has the same thin build, dark hair, and fashion sense-- catches him looking and smiles. 

Enjolras weakly returns the gesture.

And he keeps bumping into this kid, but maybe he shouldn't be surprised since he does his shopping at the same time on the same day every week. 

After the third time, the guy saunters over to him with a confidence that turns Enjolras' stomach. He's got on a heavy coat and a scarf, and has a six-pack of beer under his arm. 

"Hi," He says in a voice reedier than Grantaire's. 

"Hey." Enjolras tries to remain coolly looking at bread. 

"I feel like I see you around here a lot," the guy says, readjusting his beer so he can pick up a loaf of sourdough. Enjolras shrugs. "I'm Felix. I work over at Studio." 

"Yeah, hi." Felix gives a crooked, casual smile and balances his bread to offer Enjolras a hand. Enjolras takes it, and it's possible this is the first deliberate human contact he's had in about a week. Felix looks at him expectantly. "Oh, sorry-- I'm Enjolras."

"Enjolras. Hi." 

"At Studio? The theatre?" Enjolras has never been good at small talk, and watching Felix run his fingers through his dark hair is making it even worse. His hair remains exactly where it's placed, a messy splash of inky waves. "Are you an actor?" 

Felix laughs. "Uhm, not really. More like, I'm taking classes and working in the box office." 

Enjolras picks out a loaf of wheat bread for himself. 

"Hey, uhm, Enjolras," Felix replaces his loaf of sourdough and chooses something milder instead. "Wanna get a drink sometime? Or lunch? You look like you could use a friend." 

It's almost insulting to be told that he looks lonely, but it's also very tempting to say yes to the cheery glint in Felix's dark eyes. There's nothing of Grantaire's melancholy to this young man, and the longer Enjolras looks at him the less like Grantaire he looks and seems. His ears are too big and his teeth are a little crooked. He's handsome enough, but completely different.

"Oh, I..." His mind goes blank. "I can't. I shouldn't. I mean, I'm moving."

Felix looks flustered; "Moving?" 

Unsure why he said it, Enjolras suddenly knows that it's true. It's December, it's cold, and he's going home. 

"Back home. I'm from New York," he explains. "I'm going back." 

"Oh, sure. Soon?" 

"Before Christmas," Enjolras says quickly, amazed at how easily he's saying all this, when five minutes ago there had been no such plan in his head. 

Felix stares at him for a moment, as if he's trying to figure out if Enjolras is lying as a polite way to say 

No, or if this is all true. 

"That's in two weeks. Surely you have time for one drink before that." Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but Felix cuts him off-- "No," he says, "I insist. One drink. It'll be fun." 

Enjolras shakes his head.

"Come on," Felix presses. "When was the last time you went out solely to have fun?" 

Which is a pretty good argument, really. 

"I'll think about it," Enjolras says, turning to go hunt down the type of cereal he likes.

"We are going to hang out, man," Felix calls cheerily after him. "Just wait!" 

Enjolras starts selling his furniture and mailing things to Combeferre almost immediately. He keeps the guitar and the last thing to go is the couch. 

Felix takes him out on the 22nd, after finding him at the grocery store again-- this time amongst the celery and lettuce. Impressed by his persistence, Enjolras agrees to go out. They get drinks at a seedy seeming little bar in Adams Morgan called Larry's Lounge, and Enjolras tries really hard to hate it. The entire front of the place is windows, and he and Felix chat comfortably while watching the foot traffic outside. It's a Thursday, and so while it's not busy, there are still groups of young people huddled together out on the street and the odd bicyclist. 

Enjolras is charmed that Felix looked at him and thought-- there's a guy I'd like to be friends with. Because, as it turns out, this is definitely not a date like Enjolras had half feared. Felix talks about a girl at work he likes, a blonde with a cute little mouth and tiny feet. 

"She was a ballerina," he sighs and leans his head on his hands in a gesture reminiscent of something Courfeyrac used to do in his younger, less suave days. Enjolras laughs-- he's missed this, he realizes, being social and having a good time with friends. 

"You should go for it," Enjolras says with a sip of his beer. "You never know what you'll be missing if you don't."

"Good point," Felix concedes. "She is really cute. And smart." 

Felix tries to ask about Enjolras' love life, but it's easy enough to change the subject and Enjolras avoids the conversation pretty well.

"I just had a bad break up," is the gist of his explanation. "I think I made a mistake, actually."

Felix raises his eyebrows over the rim of his glass, asking for more information. 

"I just... I shouldn't have walked away like I did, that's all." 

"That's why you're going back?"

He hadn't really thought of it like that, though now that Felix has said it, it seems a bit obvious. Of course he's going back because of Grantaire. As much as he misses Combeferre and Feuilly, misses Courfeyrac's enthusiasms and Joly's happy worry, it would be an understatement to say things with Grantaire ended in a bad way and that he feels guilty about it.

And more importantly, it's obvious that he's not happy without Grantaire. Not even close, really. He's alive, but that's about it. 

"I just think I need to set things right, to start with." 

"Good for you," Felix says. "I'll get us another round." 

While Felix is gone, Enjolras looks out the big windows and thinks Grantaire might like this city. He might like the wide streets and low buildings. Enjolras decides, if he can get Grantaire to forgive him, he'll bring Grantaire down here to visit. And if he can convince Grantaire to-- and this he hadn't really considered at all, but the thought is there now, front and center in his mind-- _take him back_ , he'll spend his life savings on the nicest hotel room in town and fuck him senseless for a week straight. 

He's busy imagining having Grantaire on his back and under his fingers again, the pair of them wrapped up in each other, tasting and kissing and biting while laid out on a warm, lush bed overlooking the Potomac (and on the floor, and the couch, and in the shower, and against the door, and possibly in the elevators too), when Felix returns from the bar with fresh drinks in hand. 

"Yo, space-case, wake up."

"I should have been going to more bars," Enjolras comments dreamily, leaning back in his chair to take the drink from Felix. He glances around the bar with a smile half on his face. It's dimly lit and cozy; there are a few patrons at the bar and the room buzzes with quiet conversation. The Musain was never this quiet, but there's a similar feeling of camaraderie here. His head feels a little fuzzy, but it's good. "This is nice."

"See?" Felix says, giving him a little push to the arm. "Now you have to come back and visit." 

"Yeah," He says. "I guess I will." 

They exchange phone numbers at the end of the night and Enjolras also hands over his address in New York, saying that he's much better at answering letters. 

"Let me know how it goes with the ballerina," he says as they part ways. 

"I will." 

Two days later, Enjolras is on the train back up to New York, guitar slung over his back and bags in hand. A text pops up on his phone from Felix. It's a wish for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and Come Visit Soon Dude. 

Coming back to the loft is more like returning home than returning to his parents' house for college breaks ever was. 

It's a breath of fresh air to step back through those doors. 

Combeferre is at home when he arrives, and he leaps to be the first to welcome Enjolras home. Bahorel gives a rallying shout from the couch, where he's laid up with a cast on his leg. 

When Combeferre finally lets go (flattening his rumpled shirt with his palms and readjusting his glasses like he didn't just literally jump for joy), Enjolras leaves his bags by the door and goes over to give Bahorel a little punch to the thigh.

"Ouch!" 

"What happened to you?" Enjolras asks, trying not to be worried. Up close, he can see green and yellow bruises fading on Bahorel's forehead and along his collarbone, where it peeks out from under his sweater.

"Got hit by a car," Bahorel says sheepishly. "There goes my investigative career. Not that it ever helped me any. I wasn't very good at it anyway." 

"No doubt." Enjolras looks back to Combeferre. "I can't believe you didn't call me when this happened." 

"It was really recent." 

"Like, a week," Bahorel says with a roll of his eyes. "It's been hectic up here." 

"Oh yeah?" Enjolras looks around. It seems almost suspiciously quiet to him. Combeferre clears his throat.

"Well," Bahorel's face cracks into a very purposeful smirk. "It is Christmas Eve, you know." 

Enjolras nods.

"And you were coming home."

"Yes?" 

"So..." 

"So we've all been trying to plan something nice," Combeferre jumps in. "It didn't work, but we've all been sitting around broken Bahorel here and getting drunk for the better part of a week."

"I'm not good on crutches," Bahorel explains. "So I insisted they bring the festivities to me." 

" _You're_ not good on crutches?" Enjolras says with disbelief to the man who has certainly broken every bone in his body at least once. Bahorel gives a little shrug."Anyway, getting drunk with all of you sounds nice enough." 

Combeferre smiles, and wanders into the kitchen to call Joly and Bossuet. All of Enjolras' postcards are stuck to the fridge. Two months of city scenes and art prints cover the top half. 

Bahorel tugs at Enjolras' sleeve; "Wait 'til you see Courfeyrac. He got a horrible haircut while you were gone." 

"I brought you something."

"You didn't," Bahorel says demurely, but he instantly readjusts himself on the couch so he can sit up a bit straighter and peek over Enjolras' shoulder as he heads to his suitcases. "Oh, Enjolras, you're too kind." 

It takes a moment to drag the item out of his over-packed bags, but when he does Bahorel's eyes go wide with glee. It's a sweater in the brightest reds, whites, and blues Enjolras had ever seen. He spotted it downtown one day and couldn't resist, though it almost hurts his eyes to look at it.

"Hope it fits," he says, handing it over. 

"Even if it doesn't, I'll wear it every day for the rest of my life," Bahorel says happily as he peels off his current sweater. Enjolras notices a few more bruises along his ribs, all fading. 

"You're losing your tan." Bahorel shrugs and pulls on the garish bit of wool that Enjolras has brought him. It's disgusting. "Only in DC." 

"I love it, you beautiful bastard. It's perfect."

"Merry Christmas." 

He has gifts for everyone, little things mostly, but all that can wait. 

"Hey..." He says, trying to be casual and wanting to be delicate. "How's Grantaire?" 

"Oh," Bahorel says, and his face turns very serious. "That's a really good question." 

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he drawls, glancing to Combeferre for help. But Combeferre is on the phone still and just gives an apologetic shake of his head. Bahorel turns to scratching at his thigh under the cast. "We haven't seen him in a while. Like, weeks." 

Enjolras feels his heart drop into his stomach. 

"After you left, he was around for a while and then... he just sortof disappeared."

"Disappeared? He lives upstairs!" 

"Don't be mad! He stopped coming around, and he hasn't been in his apartment, hasn't been going to work; It's not like we haven't looked for him. That's where Courf and Feuilly are right now, actually. Looking for him. We've been looking for him all month."

"Christ--"

"We didn't think you'd want to know."

"Bahorel--"

"We didn't want to worry you." 

Finally, Combeferre hangs up the phone. As if on cue, the door to the loft crashes open and Feuilly and Courfeyrac come trudging inside.

"It's started snowing," Courfeyrac grumbles. "Stupid fucking east coast." 

"Welcome home, Enjolras," Feuilly says, giving his shoulder a squeeze as he passes by, tugging off his coat and scarf. 

"Hey man," Courfeyrac doesn't bother to take off his damp coat before give Enjolras a smotheringly tight hug. "Good to have you back."

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras says slowly, distracted for the moment by Courfeyrac's actually terrible haircut. He's managing to pull it off, somehow, because he's Courfeyrac, but by all accounts it really should be _terrible_. Bahorel wasn't joking. "Is that an undercut?"

"I'm living in New York," Courfeyrac says by way of explanation, rolling his eyes. "I couldn't keep that California surfer shag forever." 

Joly and Bossuet arrive within the hour, carrying dinner and enough beer to drown all of them. 

After about three of them, Enjolras stops feeling quite so sick over Grantaire. He'll show up, he tells himself firmly. It's probably nothing more than a tantrum, and he'll reappear soon enough.

It would be like last year all over again, but there are too many missing pieces to their little puzzle of happiness. They sit around telling stories until the clock ticks past midnight, most of them sitting on the floor because Bahorel refuses to give up the couch.

"Well," Joly says with a meek smile. "Merry Christmas."

They all toast to that, clinking bottles. Courfeyrac rests his chin on the coffee table and pushes his bottle away; "Don't let me drink any more."

Enjolras has a hundred questions burning in him, all about Grantaire, but he can't bring himself to ask. 

Feuilly reaches across the table and takes a tight, warm hold on Enjolras' wrist. 

"It's going to be okay," he says seriously, and Enjolras knows exactly what he's talking about. "I'm sure he's fine."

"He's probably not fine, but thanks."

Feuilly cracks half a smirk. "What a homecoming, huh? Drama and disaster." 

"No, no," Enjolras says, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "No disaster yet. He could be fine, like you say."

"'Atta boy." Feuilly pats his hand and lets go. "Now have another beer. It's Christmas and you're with your friends." 

"Here's to that," Enjolras sighs, and with a clink of bottles, he starts to drown his worries in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone needs to imagine Bahorel wearing cardigans like this one: [it's daring](http://cdn-i2.farfetch.com/10/22/57/81/10225781_1184720_400.jpg)
> 
> that is my only requirement for you, as a reader of this story.
> 
> (also, did you guys guess that I live in DC?)


	11. finale

Two days after Christmas, Enjolras climbs up the fire escape to Grantaire's apartment. 

As expected, it's empty. 

Nothing has moved, really, nothing has been packed up or put away. There are still clothes on the floor and charcoal on the sheets. 

It's not that he expected to find Grantaire among the debris here, but he had partially imagined he'd find a clue as to where he'd gone. But there's nothing. Just the empty fridge and the sigh of the open window. 

Bottles of pills sit lined up on the sink in the bathroom, abandoned. 

The portraits Feuilly had done last Christmas hang above the bed, as they had for months, and Enjolras looks at them with a heavy feeling. Jehan's is especially painful and especially beautiful. Then he realizes one of the drawings is missing-- the one of himself.

"Of course," he says to the air. Gone and probably destroyed, and rightly so. 

After spending the better part of the morning digging through the remains of Grantaire's life, and finding only needles and sketches of blonde hair and expressive hands, Enjolras returns back down stairs. 

Bahorel is asleep on the couch. 

Bossuet is sitting on the floor, surrounded by papers and file folders he's brought to work on, and he looks up when Enjolras comes climbing through the window. 

"Where have you been?" he asks. 

"Looking for clues," Enjolras says with a shake of his head. "It seems stupid now."

"Any luck?" 

"No." 

"He'll turn up, Enjolras. Don't worry."

Most of a week passes, and suddenly it's New Years Eve.

Enjolras spends the day walking the streets, vaguely hoping that he'll spot Grantaire. He's not looking very hard any more, having already mostly given up. Where Grantaire has gone is a mystery with too many possible solutions-- he could have gone home to his family, wherever that is; he could have moved to another city, like Enjolras did. He could be dead. Enjolras tries not to think that if Grantaire had gone home, or moved, certainly he would have packed up his apartment. They've checked the hospitals, and he's not currently checked in to any of the local ones. None of the clinics around have seen him, or anyone quite fitting his description.

It's as if he merely disappeared off the face of the earth. Or he's avoiding them. Or both.

He goes back to the apartment as the sun is just starting to set. The trudge up the stairs is exhausting. 

His friends are waiting for him with champagne and tired, sad smiles. They crack open the bottles and start drinking. 

"I can't believe a year went by so fast," Combeferre comments. "What do you think?" He says to the group, "do you think next year will be better or worse?" 

No one answers. 

The power goes out. Everyone groans, most of all Joly and Bossuet, who have gotten used to living in consistent power and heat. 

"Who forgot to pay the bill?" Joly asks with a whine and goes to get his coat. "So inconvenient, you guys."

"Long time no power outage," Feuilly sighs and goes to get the candles. 

"What a great way to ring in the new year," Enjolras groans. 

"I'm going to get more candles and some stronger booze," Courfeyrac says through his scarf, already wrapped around his neck. "If we're going to spend the night in these sorts of temperatures, we need to be a lot drunker." 

Bahorel heaves himself off the couch, hopping on his one good leg towards his crutches, abandoned by the window; "Can I come?" 

"You'll slip on the ice and break your other leg," Courfeyrac says flippantly, "but whatever." 

"I haven't left this building in like, four days; I'm coming."After lingering at the window for a moment, staring down at the street with his forehead furrowed, Bahorel collects his crutches and turns back to Courfeyrac; "Let's go."

Unsurprisingly, he's actually pretty decent on the crutches once he gets going. It's almost funny to watch him swing along, his jeans tucked into a boot on one side and cut into shorts on the other, tucked into the top of his cast. 

"You'll be cold," Joly says, gesturing to the bare toes which peek from the bottom of Bahorel's cast. 

"Worth it."

"We'll be back," Courfeyrac says as they go out the door. "I'll probably bring some firewood too, see if we can heat this place up." 

They're only gone about five minutes, maybe less, when a shout comes up from the street.

"Combeferre!" It's Bahorel's bellowing voice, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow at Combeferre, who shrugs.

"Enjolras, Combeferre! Anyone! We need help!" shouts Courfeyrac, sounding very serious, and the five of them who are still in the apartment all rush to the window and clamber out onto the fire escape.

"What's happening?" Feuilly calls down, leaning over the rail. 

"It's Grantaire!" 

It is. Half held in Courfeyrac's arms, half slung over his shoulder, is the boney little body of Grantaire, his head slumped down against his chest. Enjolras would recognize that mess of hair anywhere. His heart stops and drops into his stomach at the same time. 

"Bring him up! Hurry!" Feuilly is already climbing back inside, followed closely by Joly.

Even from five stories up, Enjolras can see the hard lines of Grantaire's shoulders and his thin wrists. He can see how Grantaire's fingers are digging slightly into Courfeyrac's arm. He can see how Grantaire doesn't have a coat, never has a coat, and the way he's shuddering-- It's all he can see.

"I can't get him up all those stairs!" Courfeyrac calls up, shifting his hold on Grantaire. His head lolls onto Courfeyrac's shoulder, exposing his throat. "Not on my own. And this lug is no help," he adds with a nod of his head to Bahorel, who is already hobbling his way back towards the building. 

"Not the time, Courf," Bahorel replies just as Feuilly and Joly come charging out into the street. 

The pair of them scoop Grantaire into a more efficient hold and are rushing back into the building once again. 

Enjolras is inside, hardly remembering climbing through the window, moving towards the door, hardly processing what his body is doing. His head is filled with the rush of blood and fear; he can hear his heart pounding and the distant shouts of his friends. He feels sick.

Feuilly and Joly come in, carrying Grantaire between them, and brush right past Enjolras. Combeferre takes his arm and holds him tightly, even though Enjolras isn't moving. There's too much bone in his vision, too much pale skin and too many bruises for him to be anything but stuck to the floor. It's too much to see Grantaire like this, sweating and shaking and thin. Overwhelmed, Enjolras watches as Feuilly and Joly lay out Grantaire on the couch, gently arranging his limbs.

"He's delirious," Joly says, feeling for temperature and pulse and pulling open Grantaire's eyes to look at his pupils. 

"Oh god," Enjolras hears himself say. He's alone for the moment, Combeferre having gone to find some blankets. 

"He was just out on the curb. God knows where he's been, but there he was," Courfeyrac says, suddenly at Enjolras' side. 

"Gotta light?" Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras' feet carry him to the couch. He's perches at Grantaire's side, clutching his hand tightly between his own. His voice is raspier than Enjolras remembers, and weaker. His eyes flutter open. He sees Enjolras and he looks confused. "I know you." 

"We need some heat!" Feuilly says loudly, and immediately Combeferre appears again, arms laden with blankets. 

"I'm shaking," Grantaire says while looking at his trembling arms, his eyes clearing nearly to lucidity. He stares at Enjolras even as Joly and Combeferre wrap him up tightly in layers of wool and cotton. "You."

"He needs more than heat," Joly says quietly to Feuilly. 

"I heard that," Grantaire says, glancing at Joly only for a moment before looking back to Enjolras.

"We need to get him to a hospital," Joly says, standing. "I'm calling for an ambulance."

With a speed that surprises everyone, Grantaire's hand snaps out to catch Joly by the wrist. His eyes are wild with fever, and the dark circles under his eyes further this image of something fierce and feral. The tendons of his throat stand out sharply, leading to pure bone at his collarbones and down through his chest. His cheekbones are sharp, his eyes hollow, his entire being _gaunt._

"Don't bother," Grantaire hisses through his teeth, even as Joly pulls his arm away. "Don't waste your money on me." 

Joly goes off to the phone with a shake of his head, and Grantaire turns his attention back to Enjolras; 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I came back."

"Why?" He asks, collapsing back on the couch. 

"For you." 

"Fuck!" Joly screams from across the room. With a horrible cracking of plastic against metal, Joly smashes the receiver against the counter in the kitchen. Little bits of phone crack off. "Pay your fucking bills!" He cracks the phone against the counter again and again, until Bossuet pulls him away and forces him into the armchair. Joly buries his face in his hands and gives out one more frustrated growl of a sob before falling silent. 

"For me?" Grantaire says quietly to Enjolras, utterly ignoring Joly's outburst. Enjolras, who is still holding his hand desperately, feeling every bone beneath cool skin, looks back to Grantaire with a level of desperation. A horrible sadness falls over Grantaire's features. "That can't be right."

Everyone else seems to have stepped back, giving them space and privacy. Joly is still collapsed in the armchair, Bossuet's hands on his shoulders. Bahorel is propped against the counter in the kitchen, his crutches long abandoned. Courfeyrac stands with his head on Combeferre's shoulder. 

Feuilly alone hasn't entirely retreated, but stands a few steps back from the head of the couch, looking down on the scene with a sadness that speaks of familiar feelings and remembered losses.

"It is." Enjolras looks into Grantaire's eyes and sees mostly the fog of fever and delirium. It breaks his heart. "Grantaire, I--"

"I should tell you," Grantaire interrupts. 

"No, let me--"

"Listen, Enjolras, I didn't mean what I said."

"I'm sorry I left, it wasn't because--" Grantaire's fingers brush over Enjolras' cheeks and eyebrows and lips, as if testing his reality. He gives a weak smile when Enjolras presses a small kiss to his fingertips.

"I missed you. I'm sorry. I love you," Grantaire sighs. 

"That's what I'm trying to say," Enjolras says, rushing forward. He can see Grantaire fading in the way his eyes droop and his smile fades. "I should have told you that... I love you. I love you and I should have been saying it for months. I love you."

"No, you don't. You don't have to lie because I'm dying." Grantaire says with a quirk of his lips, the beginning of a derisive smile. Enjolras runs his hands over Grantaire's forehead, wiping away sweat, and despite everything, Grantaire allows this, and more, he leans into the touch.

"Look at me," Enjolras says firmly, and Grantaire does. "Look into my eyes and listen to me." There is a pause as Enjolras takes a deep breath and musters up his words and his courage. "When I was in DC," he begins, "you were all I thought about. I saw you everywhere, I dreamt about you. I'm sorry I pushed you away, that we pushed each other. Listen to me, and listen closely. I should have held onto you as tightly as I could, and never let you go, and never left. I should have told you this months ago, and I didn't because I was stubborn and angry and proud." 

It's quite a speech, and Enjolras would feel embarrassed that _everyone_ is here to hear it, but for the warm look that's growing in Grantaire's eyes. Enjolras holds Grantaire's thin face in his hands and leans forward to press their foreheads together. "What did I tell you? Without you, I turn to ash. I'm empty without you. You mean so much to me, and I need more time with you-- I need years and years and the rest of our _long_ lives--"

Grantaire coughs out a laugh. 

Enjolras continues fiercely; "I need all that time to tell you that I love you. To tell you over and over that I _love you_. I have always loved you. Can't you see it in my eyes?"

He pulls back just enough that Grantaire can really see him. 

"I love you," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. He wants to smile, it feels so good to say those words. He wants to smile and so he tries. "I do." 

And he brings their mouths together in a chaste and gentle kiss. Grantaire gives a happy little hum. 

"Okay, I believe you." 

"So please," Enjolras' voice cracks. He rubs their cheeks together, hiding how his face is crumbling into tears. "Please don't leave me. Don't go." 

Grantaire's chapped lips find Enjolras' temples, his forehead, the space between his eyebrows. "But don't you think," he says in a voice so quiet Enjolras can hardly hear him, "that to die would be an awfully big adventure?" 

At that, Enjolras starts to cry in earnest. He presses a kiss to the corner of Grantaire's mouth, then another, then another, even as sobs shake his shoulders,even as tears wet his face and distort his features and slide between their mouths. "No," he says through shudders, "I don't. Please don't. Not you too." 

Trembling fingers trace the shell of Enjolras' ear, brush the corner of his jaw, and then the hand falls away. With a last look to Enjolras, Grantaire lets out a rasping breath, closes his eyes, and falls still.

The room is silent and no one moves. 

The world collapses inwards until all Enjolras can see is Grantaire's slack face and dark hair and all he can hear is a rush of static in his ears. 

"Grantaire?" Enjolras forces the word out of his mouth, his chest unbearably tight, too tight to breathe or speak. "Grantaire?" He shakes Grantaire by the shoulders.

Nothing.

"Grantaire." He presses his ear to Grantaire's chest and feels the bone of his sternum and thin muscle and that is all. There is no movement. No sound. 

Nothing.

"No." There are hands on his shoulders, holding him and pulling him away. "No, no," he says, his hands reaching for Grantaire even as his friends hold him steady and lower him to the floor. Combeferre has wrapped his arms around Enjolras' chest, Courfeyrac shushes him and brushes hair from his eyes. "No no no..." 

Joly and Bossuet join them on the floor, arms around backs and necks. Even Bahorel hobbles over and awkwardly sits, his strong hands finding purchase at the back of Enjolras' neck.

Feuilly comes to crouch before Enjolras. He takes hold of his face and solemnly wipes away his tears. 

"It's alright, Enjolras. It's okay," Combeferre lies in sweet, calming tones.

"No," he replies, his eyes locked on Feuilly, who is the only one who might actually know how he feels. 

"It's not alright."

"I know," Combeferre says sadly, holding Enjolras ever tighter. 

"It will be," Feuilly adds quietly. 

"He can't do this to me," Enjolras says, starting to feel angry, but distant and removed too. His heart is hardening back up; his tears have stopped and are drying on his cheeks. "He's so selfish. He can't leave me like this. I can't lose him too." 

"I'm sorry," say voices from all around him. "I'm so sorry."

The murmured chant dissolves into quiet. Still reaching, Enjolras' fingers just touch Grantaire's wrist. 

Enjolras closes his eyes and sighs. He pulls his hand into his lap. 

There's a muffled shout from outside which draws all their attention to the window, and then a gasping, coughing cry comes from the couch and snaps everyone back around. 

Grantaire. 

He's alive, awake, trembling and wild-eyed, sitting up on the couch and cursing up a storm. 

After the initial, paralyzing shock passes, seven of them hurl themselves at the couch, all scrambling to be close to him.

"Oh my god," Grantaire coughs. "Fuck. Oh christ."

Joly is frantically checking Grantaire's pulse and feeling his temperature. Enjolras holds his hand even as Grantaire looks around frantically to each of them. He's breathing hard, and it seems to take a lot out of him as he soon collapses back amongst the cushions and blankets on the couch. 

"And you were there, and you were there," he says with an airy quality, and everyone lets out a nervous laugh. The tension slides out of the room and Enjolras pulls Grantaire into a tight embrace. Grantaire gives a grunt and wraps his arms around Enjolras' back.

"What happened?" 

"It was Jehan," Grantaire says against Enjolras' neck. "It was Jehan. He sent me back." 

"That doesn't make sense."

"Well, it's true. It's true. I was in a tunnel, and I was heading towards this light, you know? Like in the movies."

"Oh my god," Bossuet breathes.

"And Jehan was there and it smelled like daffodils... and Jehan... he looked so good." With a smile, Grantaire reaches to give Feuilly's hand a squeeze. "And he said, 'turn around, little one. You gotta go back because that boy needs you'. He kissed me on the cheek and said, 'Get going, Peter Pan. Neverland is a nice place to visit, but you don't want to stay. Fly on home.' And I did." 

He laughs and breaks from Enjolras' tight hold on him to reach for everyone else. Hands are extended and laughing hugs are exchanged. 

"Thank god for that," Enjolras says when he has Grantaire's attention back. 

"Thank Jehan. I always knew he was an angel." Enjolras smiles, even as a few tears leak down his cheeks. "It's okay, Enjolras," Grantaire whispers, working his fingers into Enjolras' hair as he presses their cheeks together.

It's a lovely feeling, for a moment, to have Grantaire's skin against him again. Grantaire kisses him by his ear, and Enjolras shivers and then pulls away.

"Ugh, you're all wet." 

With embarrassment, Grantaire retreats and wipes at his forehead and mouth; "Sorry."

"His fever's breaking," Joly chimes in, leaning between them to press the back of his hand of Grantaire's forehead. "It's good." 

"See? It's good." Grantaire smirks at Enjolras, the same sarcastic, wry smirk of five months ago. It doesn't matter about the dark circles under his eyes or that he was ninety-percent dead two minutes ago or he's still in rough shape. He's the same and he's alive and that's _all_ that matters. 

"We should take him to the hospital, though," Joly says, checking pulse once again, his fingers alternating from Grantaire's throat to his wrist. 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, drained and pale, but _alive_ and _okay_ \-- or okay enough-- and smiling; "Tomorrow," he says, lifting Grantaire off the couch-- blankets and all-- and holding him in his arms. He's too long for this, but not too heavy, and Enjolras shifts his hold so he can carry Grantaire without too much fear of dropping him. "Tonight, we're going to eat something and go to sleep." 

Grantaire weasels an arm around Enjolras' neck and nuzzles into the crook of his throat. 

"Enjolras, really--" Joly protests, but Enjolras is already heading towards the door. 

It's Feuilly who makes the winning argument. He slings an arm around Joly, gives Enjolras a warm, helpful smile, and says: "Tomorrow, Joly. Don't you know what emergency rooms are like on big, drunken holidays?" 

Joly blanches-- he's been put in his place and he knows it. Emergency rooms are bad on the most normal of days, but add a holiday that encourages being blackout drunk late into the night? It's a recipe for certain disaster. He shrugs his shoulders in defeat and slumps back into the armchair. 

"I think he'll be okay until then," Enjolras adds. Combeferre opens the door for him, and Enjolras nods his thanks. Grantaire reaches out to paw at Combeferre in a friendly gesture. "So good-night, everyone. We'll see you when tomorrow comes." 

"Tomorrow's already here!" Bahorel calls after him, his smile infectious through his voice. 

Suppressing a grin where Grantaire is not, Enjolras nods his head goodnight, and there's a chorus of responses that follow after him. 

Feuilly waves them off with a warm smile.

"Goodnight, lovelies," Grantaire says as they step outside, but his voice is too quiet to be heard.

"Aw, crap," they hear Courfeyrac say as Enjolras starts to slowly and carefully climb the stairs. "We missed midnight!" Grantaire laughs weakly but warmly against Enjolras' neck. 

Enjolras takes the stairs slowly, working hard to be gentle and strong. It's only one flight, but it feels like forever and by the end of it, Grantaire is just starting to feel heavy. When he finally reaches Grantaire's door, he realizes he doesn't have a key and probably won't be able to get in. He looks at Grantaire who sheepishly averts his eyes.

"It's probably unlocked," he mumbles. And indeed, it's unlocked. Enjolras rolls his eyes as he struggles with the handle. 

"That's not safe," Enjolras says as he carries Grantaire over the threshold. Grantaire just shrugs a little, and Enjolras feels it through his chest. 

"I think that's the first time you've been through my door."

Enjolras laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of Grantaire's head, unable to contain himself; "Possibly."

Once he gets Grantaire settled in bed, wrapped up in blanket upon blanket upon comforter, Enjolras starts to dig through the kitchen for something to eat. He didn't exactly think this through and he should have known that Grantaire was never one to have food in the house, let alone when he hadn't been living there for weeks. But he finds some cereal in the back of a pantry, and they lay in bed together and eat it dry. 

"Mmmm," Grantaire hums. He shifts to lean his head against Enjolras' chest, tossing the cereal box over the edge of the bed. "Stale Lucky Charms. Just what I needed."

"We'll feed you properly tomorrow." Enjolras runs his fingers through Grantaire's hair. "Thank god you're alright." 

"Stop thinking about it. No day but today, right? No moment but this one."

"I just glad that moment wasn't our last." 

There will be more moments to savor, and Enjolras could not be more thankful. So many more moments await them-- of warm intimacy and shouted insults, of kisses and visits to doctors, of sitting in the park and in cafes, laughing with their friends, causing trouble, smiling. All these moments which they will have to share together. 

"Only us," Grantaire says, his voice slipping low and tired. He twists to face Enjolras, his chin on Enjolras' 

sternum. "Only this," he adds, planting a kiss at the hollow of Enjolras' throat. 

Enjolras pulls him up so they are face to face; "Only _this_." 

And they kiss, gently at first, and then with tongue and force. 

"You taste awful," Grantaire says when they part.

"I let you eat all the marshmallows, remember? You taste like pure sugar." 

They laugh and kiss again, a press of lips that lingers. 

"Don't leave again," Grantaire sighs, laying his head back down. 

"I won't. Anywhere I go, you're coming too." 

"Good." His eyes slide closed. 

"Happy New Year, Grantaire." 

This heart feels light, despite lingering worries about Grantaire's health. They'll have to get him back on his pills, get some weight back on his bones, make him strong and healthy again, not a wisp, a ghost, to slip in and out of windows and in and out of their lives. Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire and traces the hard shape of his shoulder blades and his ribs which reach towards Enjolras' hand through the skin. He's still sick, they both are, and that can't be ignored.

But they're there and they're alive and they're together. 

"Yeah," Grantaire sighs, nearly asleep, his fingers trailing over Enjolras' chest and arms. "It will be." 

Enjolras smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! Thank you so very very much for sticking with me through and reading!
> 
> And if anyone was wondering-- Marius is definitely the Benny character in all this, who ran off to marry lovely, bourgeois Cosette at the first possible opportunity. But because he's such a goober he definitely doesn't own property, and so is not Enjolras and Combeferre's landlord. He's just off living happily somewhere in Carol Gardens or something, and Courfeyrac is the only one who kept in touch with him.


End file.
